Learning How
by smallsteps32
Summary: Martin is desperate to be a pilot. Douglas is just desperate to get through his A-Levels whilst appearing as perfect as everyone seems to think he is. It's not quite solace they find in each other, but something more reassuring. A high-school AU in which Martin and Douglas learn how to match the world up to what they want to be.
1. Chapter 1

**Okay, that was a terrible summary. And a terrible title. I'm not happy with either, so if anyone has better suggestions, that would be great.**

 **As stated above, this is a high-school AU. I wanted to explore the idea of Douglas being dyslexic while also included the cute library idea that came up in conversation on tumblr. I've got the plot planned out, mostly, and will be posting as I write the chapters. Any feedback or criticisms would be much appreciated as it's been ages since I've seriously sat down at tried to write in modern language instead of some flowery gothic prose.**

 **Anyways... on with the show, and I hope you enjoy this.**

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Chapter One

Eighteen wasn't a good age, Douglas thought as his mind spun into cotton wool _again_. Eighteen was terrible. If he had been seventeen again, he would have a whole year to waste and he could be patient with himself... he could _focus_ and calm down... he wouldn't have to _pretend_ to be calm... he would never have taken up _pacing_. Douglas was too young to be pacing, and yet there he was, pacing back and forth in the hope that it might aid him.

The school's theatre had a musty air about it. A single breath filled Douglas' lungs with something between the dustiness of a grandparent's house and the inside of Arthur Shappey's kitchen – something best not thought about. It was, however, a haven. There wasn't a single place Douglas would have rather been during his lunch break.

The backstage area was peaceful and quiet as long as he avoided the costume cupboard, the make-up rooms, and the wide room filled with half-constructed pieces of set.

It gave Douglas a chance to learn his lines properly. It was always so difficult to recite the words from the script alone. After a while, the words swam and the length of time it took to work through them grew longer and longer. Here, Douglas could move from one end of the room to the other with an old recording playing in his ears, saying them aloud while matching them to the printed words on the page.

As he paced, Douglas was careful not to step on Arthur. His friend lay on his stomach in the centre of the room with his text-books open under his nose. Essays weren't Arthur's speciality, but Arthur had taken to his Drama A-Level with as much excitement as he approached everything. If Douglas needed company during the lunch break, then Arthur was happy to join him and get some homework done in the meantime.

Arthur's mouth hadn't stopped moving since they had arrived, but Douglas couldn't hear him. Banquo's recorded words filtered into his ears as he turned on his heels and headed back across the room. As he hopped over the other boy, he held the script closer to his nose and shrugged himself more comfortably into his team hoodie.

 _'_ _The earth hath bubbles, as the water has, And these are of them. Whither are they vanish'd?'_

"The earth hath bubbles, as the water does – has – as the water has," Douglas recited, matching his tone to his pace. "Whether they are – Whither are they vanish'd – Oh, damn!"

"What?"

Douglas paused and turned to see Arthur blinking up at him.

"I forgot a bit," Douglas muttered, and waved away his concern. "The earth hath bubbles... as the water has... and these are of them... Whither are they vanish'd? Got it... and again... The earth hath bubbles... as the water has..."

Douglas continued until he reached the end of the scene, pausing and starting again until he could recite his lines without the script. Without the words swimming in front of his eyes – growing worse the more stressed he became – it was easier to summon the words.

The moment Douglas pushed his headphones back to hang around his neck, Arthur took advantage of his silence. He didn't rise from the floor, but he did push one of his text-books away. Douglas saw the tell-tale twitches before he even opened his mouth, and made a point of collecting himself and slowing to a stop when his shadow fell over the other boy.

"You know, you're going to be great," Arthur said brightly.

"Hmm?"

"Because you're always brilliant," Arthur continued. "You always get a round of applause, on stage or on the pitch."

"As grateful as I am that you think I'm brilliant, I'm not sure I quite believe you when you feel the need to _tell_ me that I'm brilliant," Douglas sighed.

"It's just that you seem worried."

"What could I _possibly_ have to be worried about?"

"Not the play – because like I said, you're going to be brilliant. Best Banquo ever," Arthur assured him, raising his hands in surrender. His smile twisted into something sheepish as his eyes darted down to the floor. "But..."

"But _what_ , Arthur?"

"It's just... Mum saw your parents in town the other day, and... she sort of told me about it," Arthur explained, far too quickly. "Not that she told me a _lot_ about it – not that there was a lot to tell. It's just that I spend a lot of time with you, so I can exfoliate-"

"I'm sorry – _exfoliate?_ Douglas arched an eyebrow and buried his hands in his pockets, but remained on his feet.

"Yeah, you know," Arthur nodded. "When you have lots of clues about a person and you pick a few of those clues to get the bigger picture-"

"You mean _extrapolate_?"

"Yeah, that," Arthur replied with a dismissive wave of his hand. He clumsily twirled his pen between his hands as he continued. "It's just, you remember that workshop we had on understanding people? You know, that one with the scientists from Ipswich?"

"It was a personality test which we _all_ took."

"And now we all know how to _read_ people," Arthur said. "And I've been reading you a lot lately, because I've known you for years and I barely have to try – not like with a stranger. So I know you worry about your grades, and that you find things difficult that you pretend not to find difficult – even though I find some things difficult, but I don't pretend that I don't. I don't understand it, but I can _read_ it – and I don't mention it because you're brilliant at other things. But then Mum saw your parents and I got one more clue and..."

"And _what_ , Arthur?" Douglas felt something twist in his chest. "What did they say?"

"They didn't _say_ anything," Arthur insisted. "It wasn't anything serious – it just built onto stuff I already know."

" _And_?"

"And they..."

"And they _what?_ "

"They tutted."

"Tutted?" Douglas repeated the word with a touch of derision, even as a pit opened up in his chest.

"Like a sort of tut," Arthur said. Then he seemed to realise his mistake and shook his head. "But it wasn't a bad one... you know how Mum likes to exaggerate. Good old Mum... tutting and... tutting... she probably just heard a tut when there wasn't one at all."

Douglas nodded slowly and sighed, pushing a hand through his hair. There was no use in fighting it – more often than not, Arthur didn't make mistakes. He talked a lot of nonsense, but he very rarely missed what was right in front of his nose. Plastering on a grimace, Douglas sank down on the other side of Arthur's text-books.

"Good old Carolyn," he muttered, shoving the heel of his hand past his knee as he crossed his legs and got comfortable. It took all of his power not to sag as well. "I suppose it was more than their usual brand of 'tut' if your mother thought to mention it?"

"Well, _actually_ she told me not to mention it," Arthur replied, with a guilty half-smile. He nervously tapped his lip with his pen and shrugged. "Actually, what she said was to ask you how your coursework's going – or whatever you do instead of coursework in science. I mostly do essays, but I've never seen you write an essay."

"Psychology's got a fair few, but they're all in the exam," Douglas murmured. Dread trickled through him as he stared down at the words Arthur had written. Then it was gone, forced away when he saw the dramatic doodles that Arthur had drawn of the character he was supposed to be describing. Working his hands inside his sleeves, squeezing the material for comfort, Douglas plastered on a wide smile. "I think what's most important right now is that your mother's heart seems to have grown three sizes. Dare I ask what brought on such a bout of concern?"

"Just the thing with your parents... and the tutting..."

"Well, that's nothing," Douglas replied. "Forget about it, Arthur. Of course they're tutting – they have no idea their son's going to own the stage in the Spring Term."

"You haven't told them about Banquo?"

"Oh, I think it'll make a nice surprise," Douglas replied.

Even as he said it, a lump formed in his throat. It was more likely that his parents would tell him to stop wasting his time in the theatre and actually finish his school-work on time for once. It didn't matter – not really. He would pass his exams. He always did, eventually, by the skin of his teeth. A-Levels were _supposed_ to be more difficult... it wasn't _just_ him.

Arthur nodded, but there was a shrewd glint in his eye as he watched Douglas pick at the threads in his sleeves... well, as shrewd as Arthur ever got. Douglas ignored him for a while, and Arthur went back to scribbling down his drama essay. Unfortunately, it was impossible to ignore Arthur when he broke the silence again.

"So done all those practice papers?"

"Arthur, as grateful as I am for your concern-"

"Alright, sorry..." Arthur raised his hands again. "But if you want to talk..."

"I'll bear that in mind," Douglas replied.

With that, he pulled his headphones back over his ears and skipped back to the start of the scene. He mouthed along with Banquo until the clock brought lunch to a lazy end, and they were forced to surrender the theatre to the eager twelve-year-old actors of Year Eight.

The great thing about free periods, Martin thought, was that he could fit in all the studying that he missed out on during class. Classes were important, obviously – he'd never get into flight-school if he failed all of his modules – but it wasn't often that the teachers gave him anything to work with that he couldn't already find in books. Math, Physics – all good – but if he was going to impress anyone at the end of the year, it would be with his extended knowledge of aviation and aircraft and safety protocol and CAA guidelines.

It never hurt to be prepared.

Which was why, despite everyone else's hatred of the day, Monday's were Martin's favourite. A whole afternoon of free periods in which he could hide away in the library and work through their catalogue. It was a treasure trove of information.

Not that Martin was currently researching aviation. He had done _that_ research during his Maths lesson and been curtly reprimanded for it. _Now_ he was catching up on the statistics homework that he hadn't done because he had been too busy reading about the exact differences between a military pilot and a commercial pilot.

Martin couldn't find it in himself to care. While he set himself up in the corner of the library, Theresa sat up on the desk with her legs hanging over the nearest chair, folding pages from his pad into aeroplanes and tossing them over the shelves. Unlike him, she had actually _done_ her homework and could walk through her free periods with her eyes closed. But, like a good friend she stayed with him... and offloaded her grievances.

"I mean, it's not even like my mother's _king_ of Fitton," Theresa groaned as she flicked back her hair – short as it was – and flicked the edge of her Economics text-book. "At least if she was, there would be some sense in expecting me to take over. She could literally _hand_ me the town and I'd take it, because it would be my responsibility."

"I'm not sure that's how being Mayor works," Martin replied thoughtfully, eyes fixed on the pages of his book as he copied it into his notepad. If it had been his own book, he'd have been underlining bits in red. This was a slower process, but it made sure the numbers stayed in his brain.

"I _know_ that's not how it works," Theresa explained. She flicked another plane into the air, and watched it spiral into the shelves. "But she's always on my back. Have you done it yet, Theresa? Are you working, Theresa? How are you ever going to continue my policies, Theresa? It's a nightmare!"

"Then why are you taking Government and Politics, or Economics?" Martin sighed. "My dad wants me to follow in _his_ footsteps. You don't see _me_ taking _electrician_ classes."

"That's because your dad isn't a dragon," Theresa retorted. She tipped her head back and gazed up at the ceiling. "It's not like I can run away and train to be a pilot with all the money I _don't_ _have_. The most I can hope for is a _long_ gap-year travelling the world."

"Long enough for your brother to step in?"

"My brother would love that," Theresa replied. "Fitton, maybe not."

Martin failed to hide a laugh as he hastily re-wrote the note he had been taking. He hid the smile on his face by biting his lip and clearing his throat, stealing a glance at her. Theresa flashed him a smile, and then kicked his elbow so that he had to re-write another line.

"I'm sure it's not that bad," Martin remarked after a while.

"It's worse than it was before," Theresa informed him, and fixed him with a playful glare. "At least before you broke up with me, my mother could blame everything on my boyfriend – _oh_ , he's such a _bad influence_ on you, Theresa-"

"Alright, I get it."

They were disturbed by the angry thud of footsteps. A moment later, Martin's younger sister appeared in a flurry of red hair and furiously flushed cheeks. Even in the heat of late September, she was wrapped in multiple layers over her school uniform.

"Do you have any idea what time it is?" Caitlin demanded, throwing Martin an irritable glare. "I've been waiting by the gates."

"What? Oh... sorry." Martin blushed and glanced down at his books. Then he looked at his watch and attempted a nonchalant shrug. "You know what, Cat? You could just go... I'm sure Mum wouldn't mind."

Caitlin rolled her eyes and huffed. She turned without another word to him, but as she stormed from the library Martin was sure he heard her muttering ' _waste of my time'_. All that earned was a snort as Martin turned the page in his book. Martin didn't react again until he saw Theresa slip from the desk and onto her feet.

"Are you not staying?" he asked.

"I have to walk Maxi home," Theresa replied with a reluctant, if not fond shrug. She swung her bag over her shoulder and flicked Martin's book shut as she flitted away from the desk. "I'll see you tomorrow?"

"Hmm? Oh, yes, tomorrow," Martin replied, frowning as he found the right page again. "I'll um... I-I'll be in class, probably. I've got a free first thing, so..."

"You'll be locked away in here dreaming of planes," Theresa concluded. "See you later, Martin."

"Bye..."

As soon as he was left alone, Martin set about finishing his homework as quickly as he could. He'd be damned if he was taking Maths home with him. There were more important things there – new magazines and prospectuses, models, an updated simulator – whatever he was in the mood for.

But for now... Maths...

In half an hour, the librarian would march around and kick him off school property. Douglas knew that he didn't have long. The only other person in the library was a ginger boy from his Physics class – Martin, his name was. They weren't friends, even though they had shared classes here and there throughout their school careers. Now he was just one more distraction.

Douglas could see the flickering from the other boy's lamp in his peripheral vision. He could hear the boy humming now and then as he scratched something out in his notepad. It was making it very difficult to focus on the words in front of him. It was only supposed to be a practice paper – something the teacher could mark and then pass along to his parents – but it was taking far too long to read the information and then absorb the information and then _write_ the _damned_ information in the right way – the way the paper required.

It wasn't even difficult. Douglas knew it wasn't difficult – he understood the theories when they were explained out loud. And he _could_ read it. He _could_ and he _was_ and all he needed was to finish it in the next half an hour... then he could do the paper at home and hand it in come morning classes, and voila – nothing to focus on except the play and whichever match was next.

There was the scratching again – and the _tapping_.

The Martin boy was _tapping_ his pen and whistling through the pen-lid and flicking the pages too fast – annoyingly fast – four for every one of Douglas'.

Hunching lower over his books, Douglas gritted his teeth and concentrated in copying out the important pieces of information in his own hand. That always helped... all he had to do was get it down...


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

The moment he was released from Chemistry, Douglas hurried to slip his books into his bag. While his classmates bustled around him, he made quick conversation – dropping smooth answers and excuses, and sounding reasonably excited for rugby practice at the end of school. That at least he didn't have to fake. Running back and forth would at least get some air in his lungs and clear his head for a few hours.

Now, however, he didn't have time to waste. If he timed it right, he could eat his lunch in the library when the librarian's back was turned. It wasn't like it would be the first time.

As soon as his coat was on, Douglas was through the classroom door and striding down the hall.

He was met in the next corridor by Arthur, who fell into step beside him. The other boy's hand was stained with multi-coloured ink as it always was after a Geography lesson spent highlighting maps and drawing diagrams. He wasn't great at the statistical side of the subject, or the natural side of it, or the maps to an extent, but he _did_ take great joy in the diagrams – his ability to store one out of every twenty facts that he was given came in useful.

"Hey Douglas!" Arthur's cheer went a little way towards lightening Douglas' mood – like a miniature ray of sunshine. He bounded alongside him with his hands buried in his pockets, rucksack slung over one shoulder, until he realised that they had turned left a few too many times. "Um, Douglas... the lunch hall's the other way. Unless you're going outside... which is also the other way."

Douglas sighed and slowed to a stop. Stealing glances over his shoulders, even though there was no reason to be ashamed, he motioned for Arthur to follow him into the shelter between the IT room and the computer cabinets.

"What's going on? Why are we sneaking around?"

"We're not sneaking around," Douglas replied softly. He rolled his eyes, but couldn't quite dismiss the lump in his throat.

There was no shame in studying – _everyone_ wanted to do well this year – but Douglas had spent the last few years building up his reputation. He was a sportsman, a musician, an actor, someone the lads could rely on to get them out of trouble and to break the tension at just the right moment. It had never been a lie before... then again, Douglas had never needed to put in so much effort before.

"Oh... it kind of feels like we're sneaking around," Arthur remarked.

"Believe what you like, Arthur. All _I'm_ doing is going to the library," Douglas assured him. Again he stole a glance out across the hall, and inwardly cursed himself for his nerves. Plastering on a smirk, he patted Arthur's arm. "I need to consolidate some of my notes, that's all. Go to lunch if you want – I'll catch up later."

"I could come with you," Arthur suggested. "I've got a list of things I didn't understand from Geography that I could look up." He paused a moment as his brow furrowed with confusion. "That _is_ what consolidate means, right? It's just I've been working on my vocabulary – for when I meet Mum's lawyers and the people that come round for the plane."

In spite of himself, Douglas felt his mood lift as he nodded and continued down the hall towards the library, with Arthur at his side. Company was distracting, but it was better than sitting alone while his head span.

"So what things have you written down to look up later?"

"Hmm?"

Douglas shook off his surprise as he shot Arthur a sideways glance.

"I just mean was Chemistry really difficult today?"

"No, it was fine," Douglas replied with a shrug.

For a change, it _had_ been fine. The equations would take him a while to memorise, but they had been easy enough to copy down and the teacher had a slow and steady approach to teaching. The shapes of the words were unique enough and the cause and effect nature of the content made it easier to store the information. Douglas _understood_ , even if he wasn't all that interested, which made the input and output far simpler.

He didn't feel like explaining any of that though – not to Arthur of all people, even if he _was_ the most trustworthy person he knew.

"I had double Physics this morning," Douglas said in lieu of a real explanation. "I just need to check a few details."

In truth, he needed to completely rewrite his notes. The ones he had taken in class were garbled – distorted by the teacher's swift way of talking and his own ability to turn the words from clear concepts in his head into structured sentences on the page. It was nowhere near as shoddily done as the work he had produced in primary school, but there were some _glaring_ gaps that were sure to come up in the practice papers.

Arthur must have missed the dejected weight in his tone.

" _Already_?" he exclaimed. "I've never known you to do your homework the same day you got it. Even _I_ don't do that, and Mum's been getting really strict about it since last year."

Mercifully, they had reached the library and hush would be demanded. As Douglas pushed the double doors open, he turned to Arthur with a dashing grin.

" _Well_ , let nobody say I'm not full of surprises."

Martin gritted his teeth and pulled the stack of books across the desk so that he couldn't see another inch of the library. Somewhere nearby, someone was frantically searching the shelves, yanking books of out place and slamming them back down without a care for who they were disturbing. Martin had caught a glimpse of a boy from his Physics class, but didn't think that it was him – _that_ boy sat at the back of class and definitely _didn't_ rifle through the library at lunch.

Putting the racket from his mind, Martin chewed on the end of his pen and scribbled down another answer in his practice paper. They had until next Wednesday to complete it, but there was no harm in getting it done the day it was set. And there was no harm in copying down the key points from the books – or finding concepts in the books that the teacher hadn't covered that morning. Anything relevant to the functional aspects of aviation wouldn't go amiss either.

Besides... he might have accidently picked a fight with one of Simon's youngest friends. His brother may have graduated, but certain of his friends were in Martin's year and he had no intention of letting them throw his briefcase onto the roof... again... best to steer clear of them until they forgot that he had insulted... well, he had insulted a lot of things. If Simon hadn't made a point of throwing _him_ into the air every now and again, they wouldn't have had anything to mock and _he_ wouldn't have had to retaliate.

Another clatter and a curse rang through the library. The soft shoed shuffle of the librarian followed in its wake and her furious hiss cowed the culprit into submission.

Martin turned his attention back to the papers in front of him. He smirked as he concluded another question with a flick of his wrist.

A faint cough – a clearing of a throat really – shook Martin from his reverie. He looked up and was met with the round face of a boy from his English class. In fact, they had shared at least one class every year since the Crieffs had moved to Fitton from Wokingham, but they didn't speak often.

To be fair, Martin didn't speak to many people often, with the exception of Theresa.

"Oh, hello Arthur."

"Hi Martin."

"Was there, um... w-was there something you needed?" Martin asked, pushing his pile of books aside as an afterthought so that the other boy didn't have to strain and lean just to see his face.

"A book," Arthur replied brightly. He pointed to the middle of Martin's pile, leaning in close so that he could squint at the spine. "Douglas is going mad over there trying to find it. Red cover, white letters – written by Q.T Smyth – he didn't say whether it was Smith with an I or Smyth with a Y, but this looks about right."

Martin glanced towards the source of the racket, which had migrated towards the other side of the library. He couldn't see the culprit, but at least they were making an effort not to curse aloud anymore. Then he looked back to Arthur, who was waiting patiently.

With a guilty smile, Martin hurried to pull the book in question from his pile – he didn't need it _quite_ yet. He had hoped to spend Thursday lunch reading up on C-130s, but he supposed he could come back tomorrow to finish the notes he missed. The pile threatened to topple, but Arthur caught it before the books could hit the floor.

Together they extracted the right one and in seconds Arthur was waving the book above his head, calling out to his friend whilst the librarian chased him down. Martin heard a groan of relief and watched both boys sprint from the room, arms full of books that they couldn't possibly have signed out properly.

Scoffing under his breath, Martin went back to his work.

"You know, it's not good for you to revise in bed."

Douglas looked up at the sound of his father's voice, which cut clear over the trill of his stereo. Looked up, in fact, from his bed, stop which he had spread his Chemistry notes. His pen hovered over the page, where he was copying out the same page of facts _again_ so that the feel of the words would hopefully sink into his muscle memory like the notes that he on the family piano.

Clarke Richardson was a clear-cut kind of man – neat and tidy, more suited to professordom than a hospital, and yet brimming with medical knowledge. It was a rare day that he wasn't found in a knitted vest with his thick glasses – even when he was gardening, fingers caked in soil. There was a natural sway in his step – a casualness that wasn't cool but lazy and welcoming.

Some days Douglas wasn't sure whether he would rather be like _him_ , or his mother – also a doctor but far more strict in personality and form. Even her clothes were sharp and unyielding, unless of course she was hidden beneath a white coat stained with different shades of medicine. Only then was she frazzled – and loving it – in the midst of hospital rush hour, leaving her exhausted at the end of the day.

"I didn't want to get in the way," Douglas replied.

What he didn't say was that underneath his notes lay his script for Macbeth, which was taking up far more of his attention.

"You're not in the way," Clarke replied. Pushing back his shirtsleeves, the man crossed the threshold and wandered around Douglas' room. He moved as if to perch on the edge of the bed, only to think again when the papers were unsettled by the weight of his hand. Instead, he tapped the spines of the books on the bookcase. "In fact, the kitchen table's free until supper. Your mother's got her feet up, so I'll be knocking up a stir-fry for seven o'clock sharp."

"I'm fine here."

Clarke paused and peered down at him.

"You're very quiet," he remarked. When Douglas did nothing but nod and look down at his notes, hand still poised without moving over the lot, Clarke clapped his hands together and plastered on a smile. "Come on, Dougie – I think it's time to take a break. Help me out in the kitchen? Or sit with your mother?"

Douglas didn't quite meet his father's eye. He wanted _so much_ to go with him, but he hadn't quite grasped _one little thing_ – he understood the theory, he just couldn't make the words stick. Answering the question was easy in his head, but he had already condensed three versions of the same answer into a single sentence –and he was still struggling. He needed more time to learn the shape of the answer.

He needed to revise _so badly_.

"You're not going to have me chopping vegetables are you?" Douglas asked with a smirk, even as his head cursed him for giving in so easily.

Clarke grinned and motioned for him to follow him from the room.

"Why not?" he retorted. "You've got steady hands – surgeon's hands."

Douglas swallowed a smile as a part of him preened at the encouragement. Taking care not to disrupt his papers, he clambered from the bed and followed his father from his room. It wasn't as if he had anything urgent in for the next day. He could take a break.

The Crieff household was never quite. Granted, it was quieter than it had been when Martin and Caitlin had been young and Simon had been only slightly less young. Still, as Martin curled up at one end of the dinner table with a manual from the sixties in his lap, he couldn't help but wish for a tiny bit of silence.

At the other end of the table, Caitlin was listening to music with the volume turned as high as it would go, so that when she let the headphones hang around her neck everyone in the room could hear the thrumming baseline. Simon was home from a long day's internship with the council, relating the day's events at the top of his voice to anyone that would listen. Every now and then his fingers stroked the faint bristle on his upper lip. Meanwhile, Wendy Crieff clattered between the stove and the sink, talking just as loudly about a weekend cake sale at the Women's Institute meeting as the gravy bubbled merrily unattended.

Raymond Crieff patted his son's shoulder as he passed behind Martin on his way to the empty chair at what had been appointed the head of the table, leaving an oil stain on his shoulder. As Martin picked at the stain, Raymond ruffled his hair, ignoring the indignant squawk that he got in return.

"You alright, son?"

"What?" Martin blinked as his attention was drawn away from his shirt. "Hm? Oh, yes – I'm fine. Just reading up while I can."

He lifted his book so that his dad could see the cover.

Raymond grunted in response and rolled his eyes, but smiled nonetheless.

"You've got a year yet before you can go anywhere," he said as he took a seat. "Don't go wishing the time away just yet. Those planes'll still be there no matter how long it takes you... there's no rush."

"That's exactly what I'm _saying_ ," Wendy interrupted before Martin could respond. She bustled over, pressing a kiss to her husband's cheek before casting Martin's manual a withering glare, and her son a far fonder smile. "We barely ever see you anymore, Martin."

"I'm here _now_."

"I know, dear, but you're not _really_ here are you. You've got your nose in that book," she replied. She placed her fingers over her lips as if momentarily wobbled, only to sigh and return to the stove, still talking. "I'm just saying, we should spend more time as a family – together. We should go out of a weekend – go to events."

At that, Martin sat up a little straighter. Caitlin saw the motion and groaned.

"Not another air-show!"

"What's that about an air-show?" Simon interjected, finally breaking from his speech.

"Nobody said anything about an air-show," Martin muttered. He cast Caitlin a sharp glance. "And I wasn't going to, actually."

"Yes you were!"

"I wasn't."

"The both of you shush and listen to your mother," Raymond cut them off with a wave of his hand before they could gather up any steam. "What were you saying about the weekend, Wendy?"

"I was _saying_ it would be nice to get the children all together for once. It's not about _me_ , it's about them," Wendy explained, punctuating her sentences with a swift swing of her wooden spoon. "And I _know_ , Simon's got his fancy job and Martin's got his exams at the end of the year – they're being pushed so hard."

"What about me?" Caitlin interjected. "I've got exams soon too."

It was at that point that Martin rolled his eyes and tuned out the rest of the conversation. He re-read the page he was on. He didn't break from his trance until he felt his dad's hand on his shoulder, nudging gently.

"You _are_ doing alright at school, aren't you?" Raymond asked in an undertone.

"Of course I am," Martin replied, brow furrowing.

"I don't just mean in class," Raymond said. "I mean socially – you're not having any more trouble, are you? From the other boys?"

"No, Dad, I'm not," Martin sighed. He tried to turn his gaze back to the book, but Raymond wouldn't let him.

"And you're not _causing_ trouble?" Raymond raised a pointed eyebrow as Martin's eyes darted down to his hand.

Martin's mind wandered to Simon's old friends, and to Theresa's lack of interest in _any_ of her classes, then to his _own_ growing frustration with his teachers. None of it was any different from the last six years of secondary school. True, he was spending more time in the library – but that was time that he would get back when he was flying from country to country. He liked the isolation. It would be worth it in the end.

With a forced smile, Martin met his dad's gaze and gripped the edges of his book.

"Everything's fine."


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

Douglas hummed in all the right places as his classmates talked around him. Again, like every lesson of every day, the rush between the desks was similar to a swarm. Today, however, Douglas couldn't quite bring himself to think about the weight of the books in his bag or the meaningful glances that the teacher was throwing him from the front of the room – he had handed in his homework in the nick of time, but he wasn't expecting more than a passing grade.

It was eloquent though, and that was what mattered. There was nothing lacking in his prose, even if he hadn't managed to hit all of the marks.

"You coming for a kick around?" Phil asked, bumping into Douglas with his elbow.

Douglas paused only long enough to formulate an answer that didn't reveal the pang of longing that he felt at the suggestion. He took the time to sling his arm over his shoulder, to hide the tussle between responsibility and the desire to have fun. Then he plastered on a genuinely regretful smile and ran a hand through his hair.

"Not today, I'm afraid," he said, shrugging away the disappointed nods that he received from one or two of his friends. "I've got double Biology after this – I'll need all the energy I can get I'm afraid."

"You could skive off," Dave suggested.

"And ruin my dazzling reputation? I think not," Douglas replied. As he cut his way through the classroom, he took care not to catch the teacher's eye. He had nothing to be ashamed of, but there was no sense in lingering. For a moment, he stuck with the crowd, wandering a little way towards the outdoors. "You know what lads? I think I'll leave you here," he said before he could be tempted onto the football field. "If I'm quick I might get an hour in the music room."

Slowly but surely, the lads dispersed. They never went quietly though, and Douglas lingered to bid them farewell as long as he could, staring wistfully at the slip of grass that the open door revealed.

"Play us a tune, hey?" Dirk called over his shoulder.

"I'll leave the window open," Douglas shot back.

Once they were gone, Douglas went in search of Arthur. With no shared classes, the breaks were the only time that they could see each other during school, whether they were studying or doing nothing at all.

He found him, as he always did, hanging around outside the lunch hall making conversation with whomever he had caught the attention of that day. This time, it was a pretty girl that Douglas vaguely recognised from one of the sports teams, a colourful bag slung over her shoulder.

She nodded along to whatever Arthur was explaining until he caught sight of Douglas and cut himself off.

"Oh, there he is," Arthur remarked, hopping to his feet. "If you like, I could bring the book over later?"

"If you like," the girl replied.

"It's great, and I've read the whole thing. I'm pretty much an expert now," Arthur said sagely. The girl nodded again, smiling goofily – charmed by Arthur's sunny demeanour no doubt, and he ploughed onwards. "Anyway, like I said, I like your bag. That's what I came over to say – and then I got distracted. It's great when that happens, isn't it? Anyway, goodbye – that's what I meant to say."

"I'll see you later?"

"Yeah, sure – see you later."

With a slight skip in his step, Arthur hurried over to where Douglas was waiting patiently. His eyes travelled up and down him once.

"You alright, Douglas?"

"Hmm? Yes, of course I am," Douglas replied. He buried his hands in his pockets and began walking, knowing that Arthur would follow alongside him without question. "How do you feel about the music rooms?"

"They're great."

"How do you feel about _going_ there, _now_?" Douglas reiterated.

"Oh, _now_ ," Arthur said. "Sounds brilliant. Are you still playing that Monet piece?"

"Could you possibly mean Mozart?"

"I might, yes."

"Then no, I'm not playing anything by Mozart," Douglas said. He shot Arthur a winning grin and motioned for him to follow him into the nearest hall. If they were quick, they could get the small room near the pitches – they just had to get in unseen. "Although I _was_ considering learning something as a surprise for your mother – it was _Tosca_ that she went to see the other day, wasn't it?"

In retrospect, sitting at the front of the class wasn't the best idea if he wanted to _not_ listen. The epiphany came at the end of the school day, and Martin discarded it immediately – why would he sit at the _back? –_ but it was another one of those occurrences that would get back to Simon through one of his younger mates, and would then make it back to his parents, and he would get another talking to from his mother while his dad sniggered and shook his head.

The lesson in question was Maths. Martin was good at Maths. He knew that he was. Once the equations were in his head, he could work his way through any paper without a lick of trouble – if he missed something the teacher said, he could pick it up from the books. Going over and over the same statistics in the name of revision was just silly. It was a waste of time that he could have been using to do something else.

The teacher's voice droned over his head, filling the air with a humid sort of haze. Around him, his classmates scribbled away – some were hunched over taking notes while others were slumped over doodling on the corners of their notepads. Beside him, Theresa's elbow was bumping his as she copied down everything that was said, all which sketching spiralling slip-streams down the side of the page.

Every now and that, Theresa scratched down a note on Martin's notepad – there was plenty of room – Martin hadn't written a single thing in fifteen minutes. It was an attempt to keep Martin on track – a warning each time the teacher strolled past their desk, bringing with her a cloud of heady perfume.

Martin's nose was buried in his manual. It wasn't _really_ a manual – more of an interest book, an in-depth analysis of the running of 747s. Martin was quite enjoying it actually. It was the sort of thing that would help him out in the career's interviews – forget leaflets and aptitude tests, he was ready to slip into his chosen career straight from school. Just as long as he passed his exams-

The book was snatched from Martin's hands without warning.

He startled, hands closing around thin air as he stammered aloud. For a moment, Martin feared that the rest of the class had heard him. Then he realised that the rest of the class was silent and staring. The teacher leant over his desk, his book closed and hanging at her side.

 _She hadn't even marked the page_.

"Martin, how many times?"

"Sorry, Miss," Martin stammered, fighting a scowl as he twitched towards the book. He wasn't about to snatch it back from her, but he wanted to. "I _was_ listening."

"What did I just say?" the teacher asked, raising an eyebrow.

"I, um... I-I-I..." Martin glanced towards Theresa, but she did nothing more than shrug helplessly, shoulders back. Refusing to quail under the teacher's glare, he sat back and swallowed hard, flushing until his cheeks burned. "Sorry, Miss."

"You're always sorry, Martin."

"Yes, Miss," Martin replied. "Can I have my book back?"

The teacher shook her head and tossed the book onto her desk. She tapped her nails against his text-book, which was closed and hadn't been opened all lesson. Without another word to him, she went back to lecturing the class, returning to the board.

Martin scowled and snatched up his pen. He grumbled under his breath as the usual bustle filled the air again. Beside him, Theresa sighed and scribbled a note down on his pad.

 _You'll never get anywhere if you don't pay attention._

 **I was paying attention!** Martin wrote back. He shot the teacher a stubborn glare.

 _You need to work on your time management._

 **What does it look like I'm doing?**

 _Disrupting the class. Some of us need to learn._

Martin sighed, but didn't respond. Hastily turning to the right page in the text-book, he tried his best to listen to the teacher's voice. It was difficult – it was pointless. He knew it already – he could do it in his spare time.

He was restless.

He was _bored_.

Class – homework – studying – class – homework – studying – an endless cycle that Martin _loved_ , spackled here and there with good company and his endlessly noisy family – and Martin was running around his own head. It itched through him. It was everything he ever wanted – the gateway to everything he ever wanted.

And Martin was so restless he didn't know which one to focus on.

None of it seemed to be going anywhere at all.

Biting his tongue, Martin tried to concentrate on Maths and numbers and anything but the numbers in the book that lay on the teacher's desk far out of reach. Fill his head with facts – when he already had the fact, fill it with others – Martin was restless.

In the waning light of a September afternoon, Douglas and Arthur marched across Fitton airfield. They didn't _technically_ have permission to be _on_ the airfield – at least not on the open areas – but there was _some_ leeway to be found in Carolyn Knapp-Shappey taking up residence on the teeny-tiny corner of the airfield, with her teeny-tiny hangar and her teeny-tiny office, all in the service of her teeny-tiny plane.

The fact that the plane she had won in her recent divorce didn't have pilots and couldn't go anywhere due to the continuing legal battles didn't seem to bother the other residents. The other airlines were also small, but they kept to themselves... well, most of them did.

"Do you think he's in?" Arthur asked as they reached the high wall of the hangar. This hangar in particular was owned by a little Scottish company that ran from the midlands, and while the CEO wasn't on good terms with Carolyn, some of the staff had been won over. Arthur hovered worriedly a short distance away from the wall, having learnt a few weeks before just how loud the metal echoed when he bumped against it. "Because if he's not in, and we annoy the engineer again, they might not let us in when he _is_ in."

"He's in," Douglas replied.

"Are you sure? It's just-"

"His car's in the car park," Douglas assured him, nodding out across the airfield. The vehicles glinted in what was left of the sunlight. "You can't miss that green monstrosity."

"It's not that bad."

"It _really_ is," Douglas drawled. "You should hear your mother talk about it."

"I _do_ hear her talk about it," Arthur said. "She talks about it whenever he's in the room."

Douglas smirked as he pulled the hangar door open just enough to admit them both. Newly oiled, it still creaked – echoing through the space, the sound disrupted by the large aircraft within. Once inside, he saw a few heads turn, but most of the staff ignored them. He spared a long glance for the aircraft – appreciating the look of it up close instead of in the air. It was nothing like Carolyn's plane. GERTI was old and rickety and squeaked dubiously when they ventured inside, but it had its own charm.

Douglas couldn't quite shake the desire to climb inside, stow away, and leave everything behind – but then he did – shake it, that is.

With Arthur close on his heels, Douglas ducked into the hangar and weaved around the engineers until he found that man he was looking for filling out paperwork at the wheelie-desk in the far corner.

At twenty-six, Hercules Shipwright was the airline's newest recruit – pilot in training, whose duties included paperwork, paperwork, and more paperwork... and shockingly little actual flying. Although he and Douglas had struck up an accord of sorts, Douglas suspected that the reason Herc stuck around was less the pleasure of his friendship and more the woman who sent him on the many, many, _many_ errands that carried him from one end of the airfield to the other between the various small companies.

"Hello boys," Herc called out in greeting, waving them over. "Before you ask, I can't lend you up any more forms. You're supposed to draw up your own – you'll tell Carolyn that, won't you?"

"Actually, Herc, Mum said she can't draw anything up until the company's official," Arthur replied cheerily. The first thing he did when he reached the desk was pluck Herc's pilot's hat from its top and plop it on his own head – its owner's eyes followed its path, but he made no effort to take it back. "And, also, that's not what we're here for. Actually, I wanted to say – Mum _didn't_ want me to say – because she _didn't_ say – but I thought I should say anyway... she did actually like the play you recommended. She complained about it all the next day, but she liked it. That's not what we came for either."

"No?"

Herc looked pleasantly baffled as he ran a hand over the back of his neck and abandoned his paperwork. With a casual sway in his stance, he was successfully diverted, attention devoted entirely to Arthur.

"Alas, no, that's not what we're here for," Douglas interjected. He tore his eyes from the plane's gleaming sides long enough to catch Herc's eye before glancing back – playing it cool in case someone official came round the corner and spotted two teenagers hanging around the heavy machinery. "Carolyn wanted to know which engineers you're using over here."

"Did she now?" Herc replied, raising an eyebrow. He leaned against the desk and hook one ankle over the other. "Planning on poaching our staff, is she?"

"Think of it more as... _borrowing_ ," Douglas drawled, shooting Arthur a hasty glance to ensure that he didn't interrupt. Arthur _tried_ to wink and pressed his lips tightly shut, making 'zip' motions in the air. "After all, you know how tough things are over there at the moment – all the _strain_ she's under. She only needs them for a day – and cheaply at that. The lawyers, her own and Arthur's fathers – they want another appraisal, you see-"

"Yes, Douglas, that's enough," Herc sighed. Glancing out across the hangar, he moved closer and dropped into a low tone. "Is it really that bad?"

" _Terrible_."

"Carolyn knows that if she ever needs any help-"

"But she _does_ need your help Herc – and not your usual brand of loitering until she takes notice type of help either," Douglas said. "What she really needs from you is a way to strike up a deal with your engineers. I'm sure she'd be willing to discuss it over a _strictly professional_ coffee."

"Well... and don't imagine I didn't see through your little blind there, Douglas... I suppose I _could_ have a word with a few of them," Herc said, slowly, mulling over every word. He glanced again out across the hangar. "Not during working hours though. I could talk to her this evening – over dinner perhaps-"

"Mum said she'd have dinner with someone ten years her junior over _your_ dead body," Arthur interrupted with a bright smile. "Which isn't as bad as over _her_ body, is it? You know, I think she quite likes you."

"Really?" Herc brightened considerably at that. "Well, I suppose..."

It took Herc's superior officer shouting at him from the other side of the hangar for the conversation to end, sending Douglas and Arthur scuttling outside and out across the airfield. Without reflective vests, there would be hell to pay if they were caught wandering around now that the sun was near setting.

The moment they entered the pokey porta-cabin – paid for by Gordon, courtesy of their settlement, and didn't Carolyn just love rubbing that in his face – she was on them without moving a single muscle from behind her desk.

"There you are!" Carolyn exclaimed, glaring at them without removing her hands from the hefty stacks of documents laid out before her. The phone lay upturned by her elbow, disconnected so that it couldn't ring. "You were gone so long I was actually considering paying _real_ errand boys."

"Sorry, Mum," Arthur apologised immediately as Douglas swung himself onto the patched sofa in the corner. "We got talking to Herc and lost track of time."

"Of course you did," Carolyn grumbled. "You know, one day, when your father's solicitors stop trying to snatch GERTI out from under me and I actually get this airline _running_ , I'll hire that man just so that I can repay him for every miserable second of mine he's wasted."

"I think he'd quite like that," Douglas remarked.

"Quiet you." Then Carolyn looked up and peered at Douglas from across the room. "Your father called."

"He wants me to go home?"

"No, no – once I assured him that you were _here_ and not rotting in a ditch somewhere, he was perfectly pleasant. Said you could stay for tea – invited _me_ over for tea, heaven forbid."

"Oh, good... that's nice," Douglas sighed. He folded his hands over his stomach and stared up at the ceiling. He had tried counting the cracks in it once, but had never got above thirty – even that he wasn't sure of.

"Nice for me," Carolyn replied. "A few more hours of unpaid labour."

That _did_ raise a shadow of a smile. Douglas heaved himself upright.

" _More_ work? Aren't you charitable today."

"Why _yes_ , Douglas, I am," Carolyn trilled. She looked between the boys and crooked her fingers. "Both of you, heel." She waited until they reached her side before pushing a pot of pencils into Arthur's hands and a small tape recorder into Douglas'. "Arthur, design a colour scheme for the company. Douglas, grab a seat – if you're very good, I'll even pay for take-away for the both of you."

Flushing with gratitude, refusing to let it show on his face, Douglas hurried to fetch a chair from the unsteady stack in the corner.

"A colour scheme?" Arthur repeated. "Does that mean we're in business?"

"No, dear-heart, but we can't be unprepared when that day comes," Carolyn replied. "Next time one of those snotty lawyers tells me I'm unfit to run a company, I can show him all aspects of the plans – business acumen, finances, even a colour scheme to lure in the customers. Watch them try and take my plane then."

Set up on the other side of Carolyn's desk, Douglas passed the recorder between his hands and traced his eyes over the wads of paper. The sheer volume of words made his head spin, even if the snippets of sentences that he caught made his stomach turn with how horribly _dull_ they were. They made his _glad_ he was aiming for medical school instead of studying law or business.

"So... what am I doing?" he asked.

"Nothing that would affect the company, obviously," Carolyn assured him. "I just need to make use of your miraculous ability to make rudeness sound acceptable."

A stone dropped in Douglas' stomach.

"You want me to write a speech?"

"Of course not. I've seen you write – you take forever," Carolyn retorted, but not unkindly. She did so with a wave of her hand. "Say it out loud, work it through a few times, and record it. I'll jot it down later – with a few of my own flourishes."

Relief flooded through him. Douglas settled back in his seat and put his feet up – then quickly put them down as Carolyn's eyes flashed to his muddy shoes.

"So what's Mr Shappey done this time?"

"You won't believe this. Even _I_ didn't believe it," Carolyn answered blithely. "He's claiming ownership of the _wheels_ – last week it was the wiring – but this week, _wheels_. Obviously I made it clear that the wheels are _part_ of the plane-"

"And that taking them would damage your property," Douglas suggested.

"Precisely," Carolyn said. "Not that he cares. The matter's over and done with for now. I'd just rather like to rub his failure in his face."

* * *

 **And there's chapter three. I hope you all enjoyed it.**


	4. Chapter 4

**AN : Hello all and welcome to another chapter. First, I'd like to say, I had a lovely review from Ashtrees which I couldn't reply to as the site seems to have eaten it (but I got the email notification). She brought up the fact that Douglas _wants_ to work - and I just wanted to say, yeah, he does. Douglas loves simple tasks and anything that lets him scheme - it's easier than schoolwork for one thing.**

 **Anyways, I hope you enjoy this chapter.**

* * *

Chapter Four

Come mid-November, the start of year buzz that had carried Douglas to school with an almost-smile on his face was gone, replaced by a bone deep weariness and an even greater carelessness. Each teacher felt the need to remind the class that there were only x-number of weeks left until their end of year exams, and each time Douglas was struck by a sickening blend of dread and... what could only be called nonchalance. He knew he had to pass – knew it down to his marrows, but every day he despised the course content a little bit more.

Mid-week breakfast was a sluggish affair.

Douglas sat at one end of the dining hall table, spooning soggy cereal into his mouth with the efficiency of an un-oiled robot while his parents bustled back and forth. For now, at least, his father was seated as well with the newspaper open under his nose - glasses sliding down the same nose. His mother hadn't stopped moving for more than ten minutes. Alice Richardson was somehow able to hold a conversation with her husband even as she brushed her hair, smoothed down her tidy work clothes, ate toast, and searched for the post – which neither of them could remember where they had left.

Through it all, Douglas was sure that he was being addressed. Mercifully, his mind was too addled by the morning to care. Once upon a time, when he had been younger, he had been able to rise at the crack of dawn and had taken great pleasure from cooking extravagant breakfasts with his parents and his brother. Now his teenage body clock had stolen those precious hours from him, his brother was off somewhere being difficult and refusing to let their parents interfere with his budding career, and his mother's promotion had stolen the fresh-faced joy of another early riser.

"Dougie – Dougie, are you listening?" Douglas was vaguely aware of his mother's voice, and blinked out of his haze, spoon half-way to his mouth. It was only then that he saw her standing at the foot of the table beside his father, the morning post in hand. "Douglas, sweetheart, I'm talking to you."

"Give him a moment, Alice," Clarke said, patting her elbow.

His attention had been drawn from the newspaper to the letter that was open in his wife's hand, and Douglas couldn't even begin to imagine what it might have to do with him.

"If he's dropping off already, he should get to bed earlier."

"He's a growing lad-"

"Multiple studies have shown-"

"I know, dear, I read the same studies-"

"I'm _awake_ ," Douglas interrupted, grimacing slightly as both pairs of eyes flashed towards him. "And I'm _listening_. What's wrong?"

"Nothing's _wrong_ per se," Clarke said, pushing his glasses up his nose.

"I've had a letter from your form head," Alice said, giving the letter a little shake. She twitched as if to approach him, and then settled for resting a hand on the back of her husband's chair. "About your classes... your class _performance_... and the work you've been handing in. Apparently he's been speaking to your other teachers."

"Oh..."

The dread returned, but Douglas did his best to school his features. Slowly, he lowered his spoon into his bowl and pushed it away, folding his hands together over the table as he waited patiently for one of them to continue. A part of him wished that his brother was still there to distract them – he was loud and argumentative enough that for years Douglas hadn't been the centre of attention – but there was no such luck.

"Is that all you've got to say?" Alice demanded, patience still in place. The only sign of distress were the lines around her lips pulling taut. " _Oh_?"

"Well, I..."

"He doesn't know what it says yet, does he?" Clarke interjected, with a nonetheless stern glance towards his son.

Douglas managed a stiff half-smile as he struggled not to squirm. He was as grateful for being saved as he was annoyed at having been spoken for.

Alice huffed and smoothed a hand through her hair – dark and cut as short as it could go whilst still being tied back – as was appropriate for a doctor of her standing. She paced towards Douglas, but didn't come close enough to be within arm's reach.

"I'll give you the short version, shall I?" she asked. Douglas nodded quickly and she continued with a meaningful glance at her husband, who nodded for her to continue. "In order of bad to worse – your Chemistry, Dougie. It's not improving, you're just... you're just about passing, and your in-class participation isn't improving either. Don't get me wrong, sweetheart, the teacher loves you – he says you're very quiet."

"I like to think of _quiet_ as another word for _listening,"_ Douglas replied weakly. His hands trembled with the effort it took not to wring them together as he lowered them down under the table – out of view.

"But it's not just the Chemistry – that's the best bit here," Alive continued. "Your Physics is slipping. Your Biology is even worse. And your Psychology – you are _below_ a passing grade. It says here that your teacher doesn't even think you're studying, which is odd because all I ever see is you _studying_."

"You have to understand, Dougie, that we're not angry," Clarke remarked from the end of the table. He was now watching Douglas without wavering, hands folded in a similar fashion.

"We're not disappointed either," Alice cut in. "We're frustrated." With a sigh, she bridged the space between them. She didn't lower herself to Douglas' height, but she did rest her hand atop the table and curl the letter in one hand, holding it out of reach. Alice lowered her voice and Douglas felt a familiar pang of relief and dismay. "Look, Dougie... I know you struggle sometimes – but I also know you're _smart_. You're such a clever boy. I _know_ that when you really put the time and the effort in, you can do anything you put your mind to."

Again, there was that wash of gratitude mixed with resentment. Douglas lowered his eyes so that he didn't have to see her face and nodded glumly.

"Yes, Mum."

"I don't want a 'yes, Mum'," Alice snapped, losing her patience for a split-second. "I want to know why – no, I _know_ why. Do you know what else it says here? It says that your contribution to the school play has been phenomenal. I didn't even know you were _in_ the play."

Douglas' head snapped up.

"Mum-"

"If this is interfering with your school work-"

"It's _not_ , I swear," Douglas insisted. Before he knew it, he was on his feet – as tall as his mother but unwilling to get close enough to loom over her. It felt wrong somehow when he felt so _small_ next to her. Desperately searching for an excuse, he could find only the truth stretched to its furthest reach. "Look, I've been... _prioritising._ I've been focusing so hard on Chemistry that the others have slipped. Psychology's hard – you know what I'm like with essay subjects, and there's so much to learn – and Biology's just like that – but I _am_ doing it. And Physics... I've been focusing on my Chemistry. That's all it is. That's what I'm best at so I've been working on getting that as good as it can be."

"You're supposed to focus on _all_ your subjects."

"I'm sure he will, now that he's had a talking to," Clarke interrupted. He rose to his feet and offered Douglas a final stern glance, soft but not to be trifled with, then looked to his wife. "Come on, Alice. We don't have time to get into this now."

Reluctantly, Douglas' mother dropped the letter on the table and disappeared to find the papers she had brought home from the hospital. As she and his father set about leaving for work, Douglas was left to stare at his soggy bowl of cereal and wish that he could just skip ahead – skip to the point after which he had done everything right.

"Who was that person?" Arthur asked, tapping his pen against his nose as he glanced at Douglas across the library table. "You know – the one who shouted at the audience. Was it Bert?"

"You mean Brecht?" Douglas replied dryly.

"That might have been him, yes – actually, I think it was."

It was something that happened every year. Slowly but surely, the balance of Douglas doing school work while Arthur looked on to _Arthur_ doing school work while _Douglas_ looked on shifted – mostly because Arthur liked to get everything out the way to have his holidays free, whether the work he handed in was correct or not, and Douglas felt the strain increase. It _was_ strange, however, for it to have happened by November.

The worst part was, Douglas thought as he glared across the library through the shelves to the desks on the other side, that he _wanted_ to be working. His mother's words still rang in his head from that morning – had distracted him enough that his Psychology teacher had noticed him staring into space at the back of the room – and had him itching to get at least _something_ done – so if she glanced over his shoulder she could see that he _was_ working.

All he needed was a page of notes – the content of their last few lessons padded out and turned into something he could go over. His own handwriting was easier to read than the printed word sometimes, especially when the information had already been through his head twice and he could remember the feel of it.

The only problem, Douglas thought as he rapped his fingers impatiently atop his desk beside his shoes where his feet were propped up, was that the book – the _one and only_ book he needed beyond the standard text-book – was being hoarded.

That Martin boy had it – the one from his Physics class. Even if they hadn't crossed paths on their weary treks across the library, Douglas would have recognised him. Ginger, freckly, that _smug_ little smile curling into his flushed cheek as he scribbled down notes at an alarming speed. The boy was actually enjoying himself. To make it worse, he had a whole _stack_ of books in front of him as if he planned to copy out every single one. From across the room, Douglas could hear the tap and scratch of his pen and the faint hum that occasionally escaped him.

It was endlessly frustrating.

True, a part of Douglas wished that he had the same ease when it came to studying – he would give anything to _enjoy_ the content matter... Reading and writing may have been difficult, may have exhausted him at times, but when faced with something he loved – a book, a play, a story or a puzzle or a work of art or a composition – then Douglas could carry the strain. It was worth it. This though... numbers and equations and sometimes disgusting biological facts... it was the burden that a future doctor had to bear, even if it did make it ten times harder to focus.

Nevertheless, the Martin boy was driving him mad – mostly because he had been staking him our since the beginning of lunch and was showing no sign of releasing the book. Douglas glared at him and hoped that he would catch alight – alas, nothing happened.

It would have been intriguing to know what was going on in the boy's head if Douglas hadn't been so pissed off with him. All that Douglas knew of him was that he sat at the front of the class like a swot, but got on the teacher's nerves like... well, not the sort of boy that wasn't on any teams, or in any music groups, or drama classes, or anything social at all.

"You alright, Douglas?"

"Yes, Arthur," Douglas snapped back to attention in an instant, tearing his eyes from the boy across the room. Leaving his feet on the desk, not caring if the librarian caught him, he took note of the sudden absence of Arthur's notepad.

They must have been there longer than he had thought.

"Oh, good," Arthur replied. "It's just that you've been staring over there for a while now-"

"I'm _fine_ , Arthur," Douglas interrupted. "I'm just waiting for someone to finish with their Physics book."

"Why don't you go and ask?"

"I'm not that desperate."

"Then why don't you do one of your other subjects?" Arthur asked. "That's what I do when I don't understand something in Geography. I just read one of the assigned poems from English and feel much better – 'cos I've got something done at least."

Douglas managed a wan smile. Then he sat forwards, dropping his feet to the ground and folding his hands over the desk. He leant in conspiratorially and lowered his voice so that only Arthur could hear. The itch under his skin longed to be set free, and he had _told_ Arthur the bare minimum about the conversation with his parents that morning – not that he expected a solution.

"Arthur, there's a very simple way of thinking about things," Douglas said slowly, fighting not to steal a glance across the room as he spoke. The other boy was still tapping and scribbling and no doubt hogging the _one book_ he needed. "If you want to get ahead in life, you focus on what you're best at. My parents want to see an increase in my grades, and they will – in _Physics_. I can't focus on all at once, and there's no hope in me pulling Psychology and Biology out of the ground without neglecting the others. As long as I get my Physics up to the same level as my Chemistry, I'll be fine."

"Oh, well... that sounds quite clever actually."

"Doesn't it just," Douglas drawled. He only hoped that any adults who asked him would feel the same.

Arthur nodded sagely and then met Douglas' gaze.

"So... if you're just going to be sitting here waiting... do you mind if I go?" he asked. "It's just, you know Pogs?"

"I know _of_ Pogs," Douglas replied. "She's on the lacrosse team, isn't she?"

"And she does dressage," Arthur said, face brightening with excitement. "It's just, I said I'd meet her at some point to ask about this weekend."

At that, Douglas's own mood rose ever so slightly. A smirk curled his lips.

"I _see_... the young lady likes horses, does she?" Douglas inquired, enjoying the cheerful unembarrassed blush that overtook his friend as he was teased. "I'd have thought that, after months of being gone, the country club would have revoked your father's membership."

"How did you know I was taking her to the country club?" Arthur gaped, eyes going wide.

"Call it a lucky guess."

"Wow... well, yeah, I'm taking her to see the stables," Arthur continued. "But my dad... he's paid for years worth of membership, and they like me and Mum. It was either that or crazy golf, but the club's got normal sized golf, so I might try that."

"Well, good luck to you." Douglas reached out to pat Arthur's arm. "I'll see you later."

Arthur wasted no time in hurrying away. Once he was gone, Douglas settled down to watch the other boy across the room again. At some point he _had_ to relinquish that book – at some point before lunch ended.

Long after school had ended, Martin glared at Nathan Smiley's back as the boy hurried, sniggering, from the room. He tucked his briefcase safely under the desk and took up his pen with a renewed vigour. He should have known not to stay behind on the same night as cricket practice. Pushing the matter from his mind, Martin rearranged the five open books into an arc around his notepad and neatened up the stack of unopened ones to the right of his pencil case.

He had lost his train of thought but it was easy enough to get back. There were only a few studious souls still in the library, escaping the notice of the librarian by any means. Himself – he had been there since the last period, taking advantage of the free time to get into something he couldn't focus on at home with all the noise. Theresa was in flute practice until late, so there was no reason to leave until then.

Head down, nose nearly touching the page as he hummed to himself and tapped the end of his pen against the desk, Martin got through ten whole minutes of peace before a clear cough shattered the quiet. A moment later, a shadow fell over the desk.

Martin sat back and was met with the sight of a boy his age, with floofy brown hair and soft cheeks, broad shoulders and a charming smile that was a little _too_ charming for half-four on a school day. His hands were tucked behind his back and there was a slant in his stance as he beamed down at Martin.

"Hello, I'm Douglas Richardson."

"Yes, I know... we've been in the same Physics class for three years," Martin replied, brow furrowing. He felt as if he should stand, but stayed where he was.

The other boy's expression brightened imperceptibly, and if Martin wasn't mistaken some of the tension eased from his limbs. With a relieved sigh, the boy pushed a hand through his hair and grinned again, pulling up a chair to sit on the other side of the desk.

"Oh, good – that saves us some time," Douglas remarked as he made himself comfortable – or as comfortable as he could get with Martin's books spread across the desk. He seemed oblivious to Martin's bewildered stare as his eyes travelled from one book to another before settling on the one that lay open on the far left. "I wasn't sure you'd ever noticed me what with your eyes always _riveted_ on those books you read under the desk."

"Oh, I-I, um... y-you noticed that?" Martin stammered, wincing as his cheeks burned. He ran a hand across the back of his beck and dropped his pen, unsure what he would do with it beyond twirling it like a twit.

It wasn't that he was afraid of embarrassing himself – Douglas wasn't exactly the epitome of popularity despite the various eclectic places Martin had seen him around - he just wasn't sure what to say.

" _Everyone's_ noticed – staff included," Douglas replied wryly, but not quite unkindly. The faint scoff put Martin's nerves on edged, until Douglas' forced smile dropped into something softer and he cleared his throat, reaching out to fiddle with one of the books only to withdraw at the last moment. "It's Martin, isn't it?"

"Martin Crieff," Martin replied. He was momentarily flattered, before sense took hold. "I-I suppose you know everyone's names?"

"I do, but don't hold it against me," Douglas replied. This time, he didn't catch Martin's eye, but Martin still laughed – just a short puff of air really – and the other boy seemed pleased by the result. He brought his hands together in an aborted motion that could have been nervous or confident, and cleared his throat again. "Now... I actually came over here for a reason," He said. Taking care to catch Martin's attention, he pointed at the open book on the far left. "I was wondering if I could borrow _that_."

"Th-that? Oh, this one?" Martin hastily flipped the cover to check which book it was – a hefty tome that was more of an encyclopaedia of basic Physics – and caught Douglas' quick nod from across the desk. "Actually I'm um... I'm using it at the moment."

"I noticed," Douglas said. "Could you stop using it long enough for me to borrow it? It's just that I need to take some notes – quite a lot actually – and I need to get through them quite urgently."

Martin watched the other boy for a moment. Despite the casual stiffness of his demeanour, there was a determination in his eyes that differed. Still, Martin supposed, he hadn't _snatched_ the book away and showed no sign of doing so.

"I'll make sure you get it when I'm done," Martin assured him.

"No, no, I'll wait," Douglas replied with a wave of his hand.

With that, he settled himself into his seat – turned sideways so that he wasn't staring – and waited. He just _waited_. Every now and then, from the corner of his eye, Douglas glanced at Martin only to quickly look away as if he were staking out a flighty gazelle.

Martin stared back, far more openly. Then, conscious of his every move and ever so slightly annoyed at the invasion of his privacy, went back to his notes. There was no tapping this time, or humming, only the rigid scrape of his pen against the paper as he wrote. After a while, Douglas turned to watch him, resting his elbows on the desk, and Martin had to grit his teeth to ignore the weight of his gaze.

"What are you actually writing?" Douglas asked after a while. Martin realised then that the other boy was leaning over, peering onto the page and squinting. There was no mockery in his gaze, so Martin assumed that he couldn't read upside down like _some_ people that chose to invade his space. "I don't remember being set any long answer questions."

"This isn't homework," Martin replied, pausing only for a moment to turn the page of a book on the right. "This is just... i-it's just..." Swallowing a lump in his throat, Martin looked up and fixed the boy with a stern glare. "Swear you won't make fun of me."

"On my honour," Douglas said sincerely. His hands flew up in a show of surrender, and one landed over his heart.

"It's a thesis."

"A _thesis_?"

"Y-yes, a thesis," Martin continued. "They say you've got to prove you've got your... y-your _stuff_ to get into higher education, s-so that's what I'm doing. I'm writing a thesis to prove that I know how the Physics I'm learning this year can be applied to aviation – specifically the aircraft, a-and the ah... the fly-ability of the aircraft, a-and possibly how... how that can be applied in the future...well, i-it's obviously not university standard – b-but that's only because _I'm_ not a university student..."

With every word he said, Douglas' expression grew darker and more perplexed.

Martin braced himself for mockery as the boy leaned back, shaking his head, nose scrunching – but when he spoke it wasn't the scorn that he expected.

"Hold on – _hold on_! You mean to tell me I've been coming in here all day – I've been staking you out since _morning_ _break_ trying to get that book, and you're not even using it for homework?" Douglas exclaimed. Martin was too stunned to retort, and Douglas carried on. "You could be doing this in your spare time-"

"W-wait, what do you mean _staking me out_?" Martin finally found his voice. "Have you honestly be sitting around waiting for me to put this-" Martin picked up the book on the far left and waved it under Douglas' nose, " _This_ book back on the shelf?"

"I have _actual_ school work to be doing – apparently unlike _some_ people I have _exams_ to study for-"

"Then you shouldn't have been wasting your time in _here_ , should you?"

Douglas pushed back from the desk and rose to his feet. He held out his hand expectantly.

"Martin, this was fun and all, but give me the book."

"No," Martin clutched it to his chest. "I need it for referencing."

"You've got _four_ other books there – _and_ _more_!"

"I don't care! If you wanted it so desperately, you should have started on your homework sooner than this," Martin shot back. "It's not my fault if you're too lazy not to – n-not to leave it all to the last minute!"

At that, Douglas fell silent. Martin feared for a moment that he had made a massive mistake. Douglas' expression closed off and his shoulders rose – he almost trembled as he scowled down at him, yet Martin couldn't bring himself to stand. Douglas actually _stammered_ – then he opened his mouth-

"What do you think you're doing raising your voices in here?"

Both boys jumped as the librarian appeared seemingly from nowhere. Martin hastily dropped the book onto the desk and Douglas' eyes followed it. Other than that, neither of them moved. The librarian's eyes flashed between them and she jangled as anger tore through her, sending her bangles and hairclips jingling.

"The both of you – out now!"

She pointed towards the door.

"Wh-what?"

"I _can't_ yet!"

"I don't want excuses. It's after school hours, I want both of you out of here until you can behave," she snapped. Her eyes lingered on Douglas, who scowled and buried his hands in his pockets. Martin was already gathering up his possessions, stammering his way through half of an apology, but she shouted over him. "Out now! Before I call your parents."

Douglas stormed away without another word.

The last thing Martin heard was the slam of the library doors. Under the librarian's glare, Martin scuttled from the room and out into the hall. He didn't stop until he ran into Theresa, and even then his temper didn't wane.

"Martin, what is wrong with you?" Theresa asked after ten minutes of stony silence. "You look like someone stepped on your foot."

Martin's mind flashed back to the other boy. His bad mood worsened when it was the friendly face and not the irritable one that his memory summoned. Shooting Theresa an apologetic frown, he could do little more than grumble.

"They might as well have."


	5. Chapter 5

**Hello all - I hope you enjoy this next installment.**

* * *

Chapter Five

Monday lunchtime had become a refuge. Douglas' footsteps beat a steady rhythm into the theatre's floor. The chairs had all been pushed back and folded away from the stage, so there was plenty of room for the backstage crew to get to work and for the cast to split off into various groups undisturbed.

While Arthur was entertaining himself by painting block colours on one of the flat wooden panels laid out for the production, Douglas marched back and forth on his own. He had learnt the lines – mostly – and now all he had to do was learn to _deliver_ them. That wasn't a problem at all really – if there was one thing he could do, it was make script sound like poetry. In fact, he was rather enjoying himself. Back and forth, arm turning circles as he gesticulated in time with every other syllable, _becoming_ Banquo as best he could.

Douglas was so engrossed in rehearsing his lines aloud that he didn't notice their theatre director arrive until her shadow fell over his – the sharp lines of a suit ruined by the baggy jumper she wore over it. Her smile was a little stiff, but Douglas supposed that that could have been due to the sheer amount of lipstick that was cracked and chapped, giving it the appearance of a renaissance painting.

"Sounds like you're getting along nicely there, Douglas," she said, her voice lilted in the meaningful way that always seemed to warn of the advent of another conversation entirely.

Douglas tucked his script against his chest, glancing down at it out of habit.

"Well, I still need a bit of practice," he replied. "But seeing as this is the _highlight_ of my school career, I'm willing to put in the extra effort."

Douglas' eyes wandered guiltily towards his bag, which was propped up against the row of folded-away seats in the corner. It was bulging with books and files full of homework, but he had yet to get around to any of it. Slowly but surely, his attention to his schoolwork was slipping and Douglas couldn't bear to face his own inadequacies long enough to get through it anymore – he had _tried_ and that should have been good enough.

"Hmm, yes, well I'm glad to hear it," the teacher said. Her cheerful expression faltered slightly as she folded her hands in front of her and got down to the meat of the matter. "Now, about the rehearsal slot tomorrow lunchtime-"

"I can make it," Douglas promised, far too quickly. "I sorted it with Phil, and he's willing to cover me in the football practice."

"Ah, yes, but the thing about that, Douglas, is that you won't be going to either," the teacher replied. "The Head's just sent a message along, and she wants you in her office tomorrow lunchtime." Douglas' face must have fallen, as the woman hastily raised her hands and plastered on a smile. "It's nothing to worry about, I'm sure – she didn't sound unhappy with you, and I've got absolutely no complaints to pass along. All she wants is a little chat."

"Oh..."

"But there's nothing to worry about. You won't be missing anything," she continued. "As long as you know your lines – and I think you do – you should be fine just coming to the Thursday rehearsal."

Every single one of Douglas' instincts screamed at him to make some kind of excuse. To the best of his knowledge, he hadn't broken any rules of late – hadn't been _caught_ breaking rules since he was fourteen – and the closest he had come to being in trouble were the letters that he had been intercepting before they could reach his parents. The school report hadn't reached them in months. There could only be one thing that the Head wanted to talk about – the one thing Douglas had been pushing to the back of his mind with all his might.

Nevertheless, staring back at his teacher, he couldn't muster a single argument.

"Alright, Miss... thank you for letting me know," Douglas sighed, and forced a smile as his fingers curled around his script. It crinkled far too loud – like fire crackling as his hands clenched.

"Good-good! Now, ten minutes left and I'll let you all go."

The teacher bumbled away to see to the other clusters of lacklustre teens learning lines, and Douglas was left to battle the ever growing dread that began in his stomach and seeped out into his limbs.

In the end, the only thing he could think to do to cheer himself up was focus on becoming Banquo again so that he could wallow in the emotional turmoil of being pursued by the king's assassins. That was preferable at least to the expression on his mother's face when she found out that he had been called into the Head's office.

"Are you sure this is a good idea?"

"Of course it's a good idea, Martin," Theresa replied, far more softly than his own low hiss. In the mid-Tuesday sun, she looked even more devious as she hunched low and peered around the bricks of the staff-room's outer wall. "We've been through this and you _agreed_ that it was a good idea."

"I _know_ I did," Martin said, pushing a hand through his hair. Every few seconds his head snapped around and he glanced over his shoulder. The quiet area between the various buildings but far from the school's tarmac was empty and undisturbed, accessible only via the fire-exits and a narrow passageway that led from the staff-room to the secretary's office. "B-but since then... I-I mean, it _is_ a good idea – a _very_ good idea..."

"But what?"

"But it's _us_ doing it!"

Theresa shot Martin a withering glare, and then smiled and clumsily pasted his cheek.

"Martin, how many times?" she exclaimed. "Have a little faith in yourself."

"Alright, alright..." Martin scowled as he followed her nearer to the secretary's office.

The door was open just a crack, held in place by a single brick to let in the November air. They crept as close as they dared and knelt down beneath the glass of the window. From there, they had a clear view of the interior. The wrinkled old man that had been there since Martin had moved to Fitton was tapping away on the keyboard, glasses slipping down his nose.

Before Theresa could creep closer, Martin tugged on her sleeve and pulled her back.

"Okay, alright – but think about this," Martin suggested. "Wh-what if they catch us? What if they think that we're trying to... trying to cheat? Or _steal?_ What if they think we're committing a _crime_ and we get expelled?"

"Why would they think we were committing a crime?"

"Because we're on the scene of the crime!"

Theresa nodded solemnly. Then she sighed and smiled and placed a hand on Martin's shoulder.

"Martin, you worry too much," she said. She stole a quick glance towards the window and huddled closer, lowering her voice. "I can promise you, this will be worth it."

Martin's cheeks burned as he frowned and shook his head. One look told him that the secretary had pushed back from his desk, but he hadn't left yet. Shaking his head again, Martin tore his eyes from the window.

"How will this be worth it for _me_?" he asked. "Look, I-I know you've got issues with your mother, but maybe it won't be so bad-"

"Martin, if she's writing to the school, it can't be _good_. I think she's trying to get me into more societies – debating society, model united nations, that sort of thing," Theresa explained. "I know it's got nothing to do with you, and I don't want to get you into trouble, but I can't do this on my own. I need a look-out. If I get that letter before they can read it, and the school never writes back to my mother, she'll forget all about it. She's too busy to notice if she doesn't get a reply."

"You think it will be that easy?"

Theresa nodded but didn't say another word.

In spite of himself, Martin knew that she was right. After listening to Simon boast about the council, the thought of leaving his closest friend to suffer the same fate was intolerable. Resistance would be symbolic, even. Let her travel the world and learn to fly like he was going to.

Reluctantly, Martin forced a grimace.

"I suppose I could get my books back," he conceded.

"They still _have_ those?"

"Only three of them."

" _Martin_!"

They waited a little while longer before making a move. Break wouldn't last more than twenty minutes, and with every one that passed Martin's nerves grew more frayed. Eventually though, the secretary disappeared from view and the inside door shut with a dull thud. Martin stammered a bit but Theresa bowled right ahead. She was through the open door before he had time to do more than scramble after her.

The moment they were inside, a muffled hush fell over them. While Theresa rifled through the in and out trays with a suspiciously practiced efficiency, Martin peered over the secretary's desk into the entrance hall on the other side. They both stayed low to the ground in case anyone looked in their direction.

When restlessness grew too much to resist, Martin peered inside the drawers that weren't locked. Then he moved to the lost and found box. It was there, cursing under his breath at the injustice of it all, that he found the three books on the history of Airbus' aviation that had been taken over the course of the last month.

Over the secretary's desk, Martin caught Theresa's eye and shot her a fleeting grin. A few minutes later, she let out a whispered cry of triumph.

" _Got it!"_

In tandem, they turned towards the outer door. Hunched low to the floor, they slipped towards the outside. Martin's spirit soared when he felt the gentle brush of the breeze on his cheeks.

The sharp sound of a cleared throat, low but feminine, had them both freezing in their tracks.

"And what, may I ask, do you two think you're doing?"

Martin caught Theresa's eye again. This time the confidence was gone. Biting his tongue to stop from saying something stupid, Martin turned to face their Head Teacher. Try as he might, the only thing he could think to do was clutch his books close to his chest.

Sitting outside the Head's office at lunchtime, Douglas was mildly surprised to see Martin Crieff of all people sitting at the other end of the hall. The boy's arms were folded and his eyes were fixed on the floor. Douglas paid him no more attention than was necessary. He devoted every ounce of his energy towards engineering an excuse for his slipping grades.

The Head's arrival was preceded by the clack of her heels. Douglas flew to his feet before she made it halfway down the hall, tucking his hands behind his back and plastering on a smile. He took care to look just past her shoulder – past the loose waves of her hair and the severe lines of her face.

"Mrs Smith-"

"It's nice to see you're on time for once, Douglas," Smith interrupted as she approached. She stopped in front of her office and placed a hand on the doorknob, but she didn't yet enter. "I've been hearing all sorts from your teachers."

"Is that what this is about?" Douglas inquired as sweetly as he could. It wasn't a difficult task as surprise and a fair bit of hope had lifted his mood. "Me turning up late to class – because I can fix that."

"No, that's not what this is about," Smithy replied. She pushed open the door to her office and motioned inside. "If you could take a seat."

Douglas's heart sank. He did as he was told. It wasn't until he was firmly planted in one of the two seats in front of Smith's desk that he heard the scrape of feet dragged along the carpet, and saw the other boy drop down into the seat beside him. Douglas stole a hasty glance at Martin, cheeks as red as his hair as petulant shame marred his features, and then over his shoulder to where the Head remained at the door.

"I'll be back in a moment," she said. Then she was gone.

Confusion clouded Douglas' sense as he stared at the other boy and gripped the arms of his seat. They hadn't spoken since the awkward dispute in the library. He considered maintaining his silence, but the itch under his skin was too much.

"What are _you_ in for?"

Martin startled, eyes widening. His gaze danced from Douglas' head to his toes, and he choked awkwardly. Then he pouted and stared down at his knees.

"Breaking and entering," he muttered.

At first, Douglas wasn't sure that he had heard the other boy correctly. Then he realised that he _had_ , and that Martin was growing redder than ever as he picked at the threads in his sleeve. Something like amazement flooded Douglas' senses and he had to look away for a moment to regain his composure. He nearly laughed out loud, but he didn't think Martin would appreciate it after their row so many weeks ago.

" _Really_?" Douglas asked when the urge grew too great. " _You_?"

"What about _me_?" Martin retorted, head snapping up. "Wh-what – you don't think I _could_ break and enter? B-because I _did_... sort of."

"What did you take?"

"My... books..."

"So you stole something that already belongs to you?"

Martin scowled and slumped back in his chair. He looked like he was about to say something more, but the door banged open before he had the chance.

As Smith rounded her desk, they exchanged another fleeting glance. For a moment, with their Head glaring down at them, they were united in their trepidation. Then the moment was gone and Douglas found himself staring down at the wood of the desk, wondering what exactly he was there for.

"Now... Martin, you already know why you're here. I don't want to have that conversation with you again, do you understand?" Smith asked, raising an eyebrow in such a Carolyn-like manner that Douglas marvelled at Martin's ability not to quiver.

Martin nodded slowly. Then he inhaled sharply and met the Head's gaze.

"Is Theresa in a lot of trouble?"

"Theresa's punishment is none of your business." Smith replied. She waited until Martin had ducked his head in embarrassment before turning back to Douglas. Her expression was grim. "Douglas... I don't want to embarrass you in front of your friends, but your parents and I have been discussing your grades for a while now."

"It's fine, Mrs Smith, really," Douglas said quickly. From the corner of his eye, he could see Martin watching him through narrowed eyes. His heart sank even lower.

"It's not, Douglas. Like I said, I don't want to discuss this too deeply," Smith spoke as if she hadn't seen the sheer terror on his face. "However... from what your teachers have said, your in class achievement isn't any lower than it should be. Your homework and revision though, that could use some work-"

"Honestly, Mrs Smith-"

"Don't interrupt me," Smith cut him off with a stern glare. "You're not in trouble, Douglas, but there are months at most before your A-Levels. That time flies – it'll be here before you know it and I've had your mother on the phone three times this fortnight."

Douglas didn't have an answer to that. He lowered his gaze to his knees and tried not to wring his hands together.

"Martin – you _are_ in trouble. A lot of trouble, in fact. You're just lucky I can't justify keeping you in detention for as long as I want to," Smith said. Beside him, Douglas heard Martin shift uncomfortably in his seat and let out a throaty sound that came to nothing in the end. Smithy ignored the boy's agitation and continued. "That's why I've come up with a nice little solution to both our problems."

Douglas lifted his head and raised an eyebrow.

"I don't understand."

"Well, ideally, I would like Martin here to tutor you until you're fit to take your exams."

The throaty noise returned – it as the only sound Douglas heard as for a split-second the world span around him. A knot of shame was swallowed down as Douglas shook his head, snapping it around so quickly that it cricked. The only saving grace was that Martin looked aghast as he did. The boy had sat up straight, practically leaping out of his chair.

"Y-you can't... you can't enforce that!"

"Of course I can't, Martin, but if you don't want me to keep you here after school hours every night for the next month, you'll make an effort to do it," Smith replied curtly.

"But I don't _want_ a tutor!" Douglas cried, and then reined his voice in. It took all of his power not to sink into his chair and vanish into dust. "I don't _need_ one!"

"See, he doesn't want one," Martin agreed, thrusting a hand into the air between them.

Douglas caught his eye and nodded feverishly, and Martin did the same a second out of time.

Mrs Smith rolled her eyes and sighed.

"Boys..."

"He wouldn't be any use anyway," Douglas insisted. "We only share one class."

"E-exactly! I-I could help with the Physics – b-but I don't want to, a-and he doesn't want me to," Martin agreed.

"Because I don't _need_ help with my Physics," Douglas continued. "And I've got three other classes on top of that."

"N-none of which I know anything about," Martin concluded.

"Alright, that's enough!" Smith raised her voice and they both fell silent.

Douglas hadn't realised that he had shifted to the edge of his seat, but he fell back at the same time as Martin. They caught each other's eye again, and that proved to be their biggest mistake.

Smith glared at them both across the desk.

"It's nice to see that you're getting along already," she said.

Douglas knew then that there was no point in fighting. Martin, however, didn't seem to understand. Douglas watched, admiring the boy's nerve but wishing he would shut up and let them both leave.

"B-but I really _can't_ help him," Martin insisted.

"Yes, you can," Smith replied. "You're in the same Physics class, so there's not a problem there." She looked to Douglas, who didn't respond. "Douglas, your Psychology teacher says that your biggest problem is with the essays – Martin can tutor you in essay technique. As for the other subjects – you can always use help with revision."

A sharp retort was on the tip of Douglas' tongue, but he couldn't muster the courage to voice it. All of a sudden he felt dwarfed.

"I don't have much of a choice, do I?"

"You _do_ – y-you do have a choice," Martin said.

"No, he doesn't – and neither do you," Smith replied firmly. With one swift movement, she placed her palms flat on the desk and rose to her feet. "My decision is final. If the two of you want to make it to the end of the school year, you'll work out some way to get each other through your exams – and to keep each other out of trouble."


	6. Chapter 6

**Hello all, and welcome to chapter six. I hope you enjoy this installment.**

* * *

Chapter Six

Douglas didn't like to think of himself as a stubborn person, but it was impossible to deny that he had been avoiding the library since he and Martin had been banded together. They had yet to meet up and _study_ , and Douglas was afraid of what he might be lured into if they crossed paths. That wasn't to say that they hadn't shared a few clipped words of greeting here and there, but no more than that.

Careful not to let the standard of his work slip, Douglas had spent the week sending Arthur into the library – playing the part of Wing-Commander 007 – in search of the books that he needed for references.

The one good thing to come from avoiding Martin Crieff, Douglas supposed, was that it had driven him outside. Like now, for instance. Instead of withering away inside, he was out on the tarmac with Arthur, tossing a ball back and forth as he watched the impromptu football match on the grass in the distance. Arthur dropped the ball every two out of seven times.

"So you don't mind if I come over this weekend?" Arthur asked as he sent the ball flying too far to the left of Douglas.

Douglas followed the ball's path faultlessly, spinning it on the side of his hand as he strolled back to his former position. It took a moment for him to remember what they had been discussing, busy as he had been gazing out at the other students. For a moment he thought he had seen a rash of ginger hair amongst them, and was relieved to see that it was only the slim girl on the under-18s hockey team darting across the football pitch.

"The whole weekend?"

"Well, I'm not sure. If your parents are okay with it, that'd be great," Arthur replied. "If it's sunny, we could go and play crazy golf."

"Maybe..." Douglas agreed. He tossed Arthur the ball. "Why can't we spend the weekend at the airfield? Surely your mother's got some errands she needs running?"

"Actually, Mum's why I want to stay over," Arthur said. "She's consulting with Herc about... I'm not sure what exactly. Pilots or... pilots' wages? Pilots' laws? She knows all that stuff from when she was a stewardess, but she's never had to hire any before. She doesn't need to hire any now, but she will do when she's finished with all the lawyers."

A smile spread across Douglas' cheeks as he reached high to catch the ball on its return journey. He bounced it once, twice, and then sent it back towards Arthur. For a moment at least, his concerns were pushed to the back of his mind.

"Oh, I _see_..." he drawled. "Herc finally won her 'round did he?"

"What? Oh, no, it's not a date," Arthur replied cheerfully. "Herc _asked_ for a date – he asked her to the opera – and Mum said no. No to the date, but yes to sitting in our kitchen and telling her how to set up an airline so good that it'll put _his_ airline out of business."

"Her words?"

"Yup."

"Ah, the joys of being a lovesick fool," Douglas scoffed.

It wasn't until ten minutes before the bell rang that they were disturbed. One moment Douglas turned his back to fetch the ball from where Arthur had lobbed it, far out of reach – the next he saw Martin Crieff striding towards them, briefcase swinging from one hand.

"Hi, Martin!" Arthur called out, waving him over as if he hadn't seen the deathly serious march in their direction.

"Hi, Arthur," Martin replied with a short nod. He zoned in on Douglas before the boy had time to escape. "Douglas."

"Yes, hello Martin."

"Are you ready?"

Douglas blinked in confusion. Then he tossed the ball to Arthur and slipped his hands into his pockets. Martin had come to a stop mere feet away from him, unabashed and red-cheeked as he caught his breath.

" _Ready_?" Douglas repeated. He searched his mind for any plans that had been set, but found nothing. "Ready for _what_?"

"Class," Martin elaborated. "We've got Physics in ten minutes."

"Yes... in _ten_ minutes."

Martin huffed and rolled his eyes. When he spoke, it was with a forced sense of authority that Douglas couldn't help but find grating. There was resentment in that voice that didn't escape his notice, although he wasn't sure that it was all aimed at him.

"I _know_ , but that's no reason to be late," Martin said. Then he sighed and his eyes darted towards the ground. He actually shuffled his feet. "And... I wanted to talk to you..." He glanced at Arthur and his face twisted into an odd expression. "You know... about... you know..."

It took a moment for Douglas to realise that Martin was trying to protect his reputation. It was enough to dampen his frustration.

"It's alright, Martin. He knows," Douglas assured him as he fetched his bag from where he had abandoned it at the start of lunch. He had told Arthur about his new 'tutor' the same night that he and Martin had been thrown together, over the phone under his covers in the vain hope that his parents wouldn't hear.

"Oh, really?"

"Yeah, and I think it's great," Arthur replied.

"Be that as it may, don't you have a free period to be making use of?" Douglas asked.

"I guess-"

"Good. Then I'll see you later," Douglas said quickly. He clapped Arthur's shoulder as he passed and strode towards the main building without waiting for a response. Soon enough, he heard Martin's footsteps thudding in his wake, and a moment later the other boy was at his side. He offered him a fleeting glance before giving in to resignation. "What was so important then?"

"Nothing really," Martin replied as he hurried to keep up with Douglas' longer stride. "I just thought I could start tutoring you. That way if Mrs Smith asks, I can say that I'm fulfilling my duties."

"There's really no need-"

"There really is," Martin continued. "I thought we could start today. Now, I'm not sure where you live but if you wait for me at the end of the day, we could go back to yours-"

"No!"

Douglas ground to a halt as panic shot through him. Before Martin had time to do more than let out a high-pitched squawk of indignation, Douglas stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. Stealing nervous glances over his shoulder, he ushered Martin out of sight. He ignored Martin's wide-eyed stare and did his best to reassert his cool.

"Douglas! What are you doing?"

"We can't go to mine," Douglas said.

"Wh-what? Why not?"

"Because we can't, alright?" Douglas insisted. "My parents are very particular... they like a clean house. They don't like having guests on such short notice."

It wasn't a great lie, but Martin didn't seem to have noticed. He frowned so hard that his freckles disappeared beneath a flush of red. With an irritable huff, Martin shouldered Douglas out of his space. His eyes travelled from Douglas' head to his toes, but he didn't voice his confusion.

"Fine. I'll wait for _you_ and we can go to mine," Martin said. "Just... make sure you've got everything you need."

Neither of them spoke until they reached the Physics classroom. Douglas headed immediately towards the back of the room, but was stopped by the clearing of Martin's throat. One glance showed that instead of taking his usual seat by the wall, Martin had traded places with the girl that he always sat with.

Smiling wanly at Douglas, he patted the desk across the aisle from him – the desks at the front of the room were never full. With the exception of Martin, they were the sad spots reserved for those that arrived late and had nowhere else to go.

Douglas' eyes wandered longingly towards the back of the room, past Phil and Dave, and then back to Martin. Martin smiled pointedly and tapped the top of the empty desk.

Reluctantly, Douglas took the desk at the front of the room.

By the time Martin had successfully saved Douglas from his mother's clutches, he thought that Douglas looked almost _relieved_ at the thought of revision. He had gripped his bag so tightly even as he plastered on a charming smile and answered all of Wendy's questions. He was quite good, Martin noted, at carefully dodging any questions about his education and his reason for visiting and turning his mother's attention instead to the paper streamers that she was making for her next Women's Institute meeting.

Soon enough they were safely ensconced in Martin's room with the door left only slightly ajar, and a comfortable hush fell between them. While Martin kicked off his shoes and set about unpacking his bag, and making his desk ready for two people to study from, Douglas remained unusually silent. Of course, Martin didn't know him well enough to _know_ that he was unusually silent, but after spending an entire double Physics lesson beside him, watching the other boy fiddle and stare off into space, occasionally rolling his eyes and scowling, Martin suspected that he was holding in a lot more than he was saying.

"Alright, Douglas, I thought we could start..."

Martin trailed off as he turned around to find Douglas staring at the shelves that lined the far wall. The boy's features were sharper than Martin had ever seen them and if he wasn't mistaken, Douglas actually seemed captivated.

It took a moment to realise that he was tracing his fingers along the model aeroplanes that had been gathering dust since Martin was six years old. Although his movements were slow, Douglas didn't stop moving for even a second. His gaze wandered from the shelf to the planes that hung on strings from the ceiling. They only lined that side of the room – the other walls were filled with posters and photographs that Martin had taken at the last air-show his dad had taken him to.

Douglas lightly touched the A380 model and watched it swing.

"Why isn't this with the other Airbus models?" he asked.

Martin didn't realise at first that Douglas had spoken. Then he shook himself and blushed, running a hand through his hair. He itched to race over and stop the other boy from touching, but Douglas had yet to do anything less than delicate.

"Well, I um... I-I lost the stand so I had to suspend it instead," Martin explained, motioning towards the hanging model. He wandered nearer, until he was standing between Douglas and the shelf where the others were perched in chronological order according to the date of their construction. "W-well, actually _Simon_ lost the stand – h-he stood on it and it broke."

"Older brothers are pests," Douglas muttered, shooting Martin a quick glance out of the corner of his eyes.

"Hm? Oh, y-yes, they are," Martin agreed, nodding hastily. "S-so, you have a brother then?"

"Yes, I do. Did you build all of these yourself?"

"What?" Martin stammered at the quick change of subject. He followed the line of Douglas' gaze, following his every step and stilling the models that Douglas sent swinging. "I-I did, yes. Me and my dad, that is."

"You like planes then?" Douglas inquired. He turned his attention from the models to the bookcase, where the spine of every manual and history book was cracked and broken.

Martin's school books were carelessly stacked at the end of the middle shelf. Douglas bypassed them completely and tilted his head to the side to read the titles, humming and ah-ing under his breath.

"I love them," Martin answered. "Actually, I uh... I want to be a pilot."

"You _really_ like planes," Douglas drawled as he hefted a heavy book from the shelf and began leafing through it. Another odd sort of smile tugged at his lips, brighter than any that Martin had seen before as his eyes darted across the pages.

Martin caught a glimpse of safety regulations from the sixties. That was all it took to carry him across the room. Douglas put up no resistance as Martin pulled the book from his grasp. While Martin put the book back in its proper place, he watched Douglas from the corner of his eye as the other boy returned to the models and hunched down so that he could view them from up close. A frisson of annoyance was marred by exasperation as he hurried after him.

Martin reached his side just in time for Douglas to raise a quaint little plane under his nose. He realised in seconds that it was the Lockheed-McDonnel 312.

"My friend Arthur's got one of these," Douglas remarked. He let Martin take the model from him as he slipped his hands into his pockets and swayed to lean back against the bookcase.

Martin shot him a stern glare.

"D-does he collect them too?"

"You could say that," Douglas drawled, that strange smirk still in place. "Although, his is a little bigger than that."

"Good for him. Now..." Martin stood as tall as he could and still didn't quite match Douglas' height, even when he set his shoulders back. It helped that Douglas was slouching. Losing his nerve a little, Martin returned to his desk and retrieved his day planner. "Right, well – I thought we could start by looking ahead. I've had the course syllabus since the start of the year, so if we get some notes down now-"

"Actually, Martin... if I'm going to be forced to into taking my exams via the buddy system, I thought we could go over _today's_ lesson," Douglas interrupted. The smile was gone, and he followed Martin across the room with his hands buried deep in his pockets and his shoulders slumped. "If that's alright with you?"

"W-well, I-I-I..." Martin stumbled for a moment, before remembering that _he_ was the tutor. "Preparedness is the key to success."

"Yes, _but_ , you having not seen the standard of my work so far, I think I know what it is that I need to catch up on – that being _today's_ work, and maybe some of the trickier concepts from previous lessons," Douglas argued. He never once raised his voice and yet he managed to make resignation sound commanding, as if he knew best. Then he flashed a smile and shrugged. "Anyway, it can't hurt _you_ to repeat a few things. It might even make your own work better."

"I suppose not..." Martin dropped his gaze to the books on his desk, and then slowly but surely made up his mind. Eager not to look wrong-footed, he nodded and pulled out his wheelie-chair. "Fine, alright. We'll go over today's work. You sit down, a-and I'll... wait here a moment."

Without any further ado, Martin hurried off to the kitchen to retrieve another, far less comfortable, chair. When he returned, he was relieved to find Douglas sitting at his desk, pulling his workbooks and notepads from his bag with all the energy of a man walking to the gallows. For the first time, a surge of confidence lifted his mood. As long as everything panned out nicely, he might actually achieve something commendable.

Martin's attitude was irreversibly altered an hour into their study session. Douglas understood the _concepts_ behind the subject without any trouble at all, and yet his focus was so poor that Martin couldn't help but wonder how he got anything done. When he wasn't staring blankly at his notepad, scratching and scratching with his pen and getting nothing down, he was doing everything he could to distract Martin from the task at hand.

"So that Theresa girl?"

"What about her?" Martin sighed.

"She's your best friend?"

"Yes."

"And you dated for a while, when you first came to Fitton?"

"Yes."

"Why aren't you dating now?"

Martin gritted his teeth as he dropped his pen for the eighth time.

"Because I... because she's like a shoe."

"A _shoe_?" Douglas exclaimed. He stared up at Martin from where he was slouched across the desk, chin resting on his folded arms.

"Y-yes, a shoe. You know, you can have this amazing shoe – the most beautiful, comfortable, expensive shoe and it's perfect for you in every way," Martin explained, letting hopelessness take hold. "B-but that shoe only comes in size 6 and 8, but you're a size 7. A-and no matter how much you love that shoe, it's only a shoe that you can _have_ , but not a shoe that you can _wear_ , you know. Theresa's my friend but dating didn't... I couldn't wear her... like the shoe."

Although his brow was furrowed and his nose scrunched, almost adorably, Douglas nodded sagely. While his attention was held, Martin took his chance.

"Did you like that story?"

"I'm not a six year old, Martin, but yes, I did," Douglas replied dryly. "It was an interesting glimpse into your no doubt strictly regimented psyche."

"Good, well... you can have another one when you've answered all of the questions that I've written down for you," Martin said. He pointed at the discarded notepad. "They're exactly like what you'll get in the exam. I don't expect essay standard answers yet, b-but you can at least jot down the finer points."

Douglas' expression fell. Nevertheless, scowling all the while, he leaned back and yanked his notepad under his nose. Then he reached for a pen and the text-book. Martin felt a stab of guilt, knowing that his 'tutoring' should probably involved a little more vocal teaching, but he couldn't muster the energy to try.

It wasn't until ten minutes later that Martin realised that Douglas' pen hadn't made more than three journeys across the page. He was about to scold him for it, until he really _saw_ the scrunched nose and strained expression on Douglas' face. He watched as the boy's hand hovered above the page – as he turned his head to look from the text-book to his notepad, then back again, and then back again, only writing half a sentence at a time as if he had forgotten what he had just read. Sometimes he wrote large chunks and other times he spent whole minutes reading the same passage over and over again – his finger following the path of his gaze.

"Did you get much sleep last night?"

"What?" Douglas' head snapped up so quickly he might have been electrocuted. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Martin immediately felt guilty once again.

"N-nothing, I just... If you're tired, you could say so. I'd take it easier on you-"

"I don't need you to take it easy on me. I need to be pushed."

"Alright... fine – fine – alright, fine," Martin stammered. He glanced down at his own notes, plentiful and scribbled out in a scrawl. They weren't nearly as alluring now as they had been ten minutes before. Reluctantly, he looked back towards Douglas and couldn't help but feel bad for erasing the boy's smile completely. In a final attempt at putting things right, he grasped at straws. "So... do _you_?"

"Do I _what?_ " Douglas sighed, and he dragged a hand down his face with a weariness that should have belonged to someone twice his age.

"L-like planes," Martin elaborated. "You know, b-because earlier..."

Douglas slowly lowered his pen, eyes never leaving Martin once. It was as if he feared he might pounce on him. Then his eyes flickered towards the models on the other side of the room and his lips twisted into more of a grimace than a smile.

"I've spent some time around them."

"Me too," Martin replied, far too brightly. He winced to hear his own voice, but couldn't stand giving up. "N-not just flying on holiday, that is. Do you go to shows?"

"No, I go to airfields," Douglas replied.

"Really? And um..."

"You said you wanted to be a pilot," Douglas interrupted, and Martin had never been so relieved to have the conversation taken from him. "How did that happen? I don't see a 747 in the yard."

"No, well, I um... that's a funny story actually," Martin answered, with an awkward laugh. He turned his pen over between his palms and looked Douglas in the eye. This was the moment that he potentially sent Douglas running - which wouldn't be a loss in terms of tutoring, but it was never pleasant seeing people slowly tune him out. "I um... when I said I love planes, I meant that I really, _really_ love them. A-and flying. I love flying – a-and it takes a lot of expertise... you know..."

To Martin's surprise, Douglas nodded along as if he were actually listening.

"So?" Douglas prompted when Martin had been silent for far too long.

"So..." Martin looked away, and then back again, and Douglas was _still_ listening. With a burst of courage, and a fair amount of pride, Martin pushed his books aside and gave in. "Well, actually, there are um... there are a lot of reasons why it's the job for me – a-and it's not all glitz and glamour either..."

As Martin spoke, Douglas listened and chipped in here and there. To his surprise, the things that he knew were oddly specific – all relating to the inside working of commercial planes and airlines, but Martin assumed that he must have family in the profession. Before long, his dad was home and they were being called to dinner.

It was only with a small amount of shame that Martin realised Douglas had barely written half a page in all the hours that he had been in his room. Then again, he supposed, he wasn't about to regret making friends.


	7. Chapter 7

**Hello all - and thank you for reading. This is my favourite chapter yet, so I hope you enjoy it too.**

* * *

Chapter Seven

Martin glanced down at his watch again. School had been over now for twenty minutes and yet he was still standing by the gates, coat pulled tightly around himself. It was hard not to scuff at the ground out of frustration and a need to stay warm. Beside him, Theresa waited with one hand on young Maxi's shoulder to make sure that he didn't run off on his own.

"He's not coming, Martin," Theresa sighed. She was bundled up in a thick coat with fur around the hood, and barely seemed to feel the chill. "If you stay out here much longer you'll freeze."

"I said I was meeting Douglas here, so I'm meeting him here," Martin replied curtly, even though his faith was waning. So close to the end of term, now halfway through December, Douglas had grown more and more careless with his time. That only hardened Martin's resolve. "I made a commitment, Theresa. I'm going to get him through his exams whether he likes it or not..." Martin dropped into a mutter. "Even if I have to march back into school and drag him away from the changing rooms by the back of his jumper."

"That's very noble," Theresa replied, "But-"

"It's stupid," Maxi piped up. He was half Martin's height, but Martin knew that if he didn't pay him his full attention, he would do more than stand with his hands on his hips. The boy had a nasty kick. "Why don't you just _tell_ him to be here?"

"I _did-_ "

"Then why don't you just let him get in trouble with the teachers?" Maxi insisted.

"Because if _he_ gets in trouble, _I_ get in trouble," Martin snapped.

 _And_ , he thought, he didn't _want_ Douglas to get in trouble. The other boy might have had the attention span of a gnat, and he may have been unbearably smug at times, but he was also... _nice_... and _funny..._ and Martin actually enjoyed his company.

While nowhere near popular, Douglas somehow managed to get along with anyone he spoke to, and he was talented enough that most of the teachers loved him. That alone should have made Martin hate him – and he _was_ jealous – but it was a strange kind of jealousy. When Martin watched Douglas study and saw the anxious lines pinch his brow as he struggled to pay attention long enough to answer a single page of questions, he found that he could forgive Douglas all of that. Douglas needed his help – _his_ help – and it bolstered his pride.

It was peculiar, having a friend who was handsome, talented, _and_ who showed an interest in the same things that Martin did. Martin could talk for hours about aviation and Douglas, while rolling his eyes, would listen.

If that meant standing around in the cold waiting for him, then Martin would brave even the snowiest day, if only to prove that _he_ – Martin Crieff of all people – could help this otherwise indomitable boy through his exams.

Theresa shot him a knowing glance, but she patted his shoulder and sighed again.

"Alright then," she said. "I need to go though."

"I want to go _home_ ," Maxi whined.

Theresa rolled her eyes and shrugged, taking care to hold onto her brother before he scampered off onto the road.

"You're not going to be around this week, are you?" Martin asked.

"No. My mother's got this big holiday planned," Theresa replied. "Christmas with all my sisters and this monster – and you just know she won't leave work at home."

"I'm sure Fitton can go without its mayor for a week."

"You try telling _her_ that."

With Theresa gone, Martin grew irritable. He began to think that Douglas really had stood him up. Just as he was about to leave, he saw two figures heading across the school grounds. For a moment, Martin considered marching over to meet them. Instead, he huffed and waited until he could see clearly Douglas sauntering towards him with his hands in his pockets, accompanied by Arthur Shappey.

"Hello, Martin!" Arthur called out.

"Hello, Arthur," Martin replied, far more dryly. They shared an English class, but apart from when Douglas was around they didn't see a lot of each other. Martin's attention was firmly fixed on Douglas, who was busy leaning against the gate mere inches from him and flicking his head back to blow a lock of hair out of his eyes. "And _you_ – where have _you_ been?"

" _Me_?" Douglas retorted. "I've been on the phone to your mother-"

"Why have you got my mum's number?"

"Because she gave it to me and said 'here, Douglas, call me if you need anything," Douglas explained, glancing at Arthur as if to share his – _something_ – whatever it was, Martin wasn't happy with it. "Anyway, I called and told her not to expect us this afternoon."

"Wh-what?" Martin stammered as he looked between them. Arthur was grinning and Douglas looked smug as he always did when he wasn't studying. "Wh-why would you tell her that?"

"Because, Martin, we're not going to yours," Douglas drawled.

" _Douglas_!"

"Didn't he tell you, Martin?" Arthur asked. Although his tone was innocent, he didn't sound surprised. "We're going to my place! Or, well... not _my_ place exactly-"

"How about we leave it as a nice surprise, hmm?" Douglas interjected.

Immediately Arthur's mouth clamped shut and his cheeks turned slightly red. He nodded quickly and took a step back, as if that might aid him in keeping a secret.

"Wait – hold on," Martin snapped. "I'm not going anywhere until I know where we're going."

"Oh, come on, Martin," Douglas exclaimed. "Live a little."

With that he swung an arm around Martin's shoulders. A moment later Arthur did the same on his other side and against his very vocal protests, Martin was led away from the school gates. He glared back over his shoulder, but nobody was coming to save him. He couldn't see a car, so he assumed that wherever they were going, they were going on foot.

"This is kidnapping, you know," he muttered.

Douglas snorted.

"Well then, it's good experience for the both of us, isn't it?" he replied brightly.

Arthur made a confused sound at the back of his throat.

"What's that mean?"

"Never you mind."

"N-now hold on – I haven't agreed to anything yet!"

Martin's protests were ignored and, unwilling to do anything too violent to extricate himself from Douglas' hold, he had no choice but to go with them.

Seeing Martin's face upon reaching the airfield was enough to bring a smile to Douglas' own. The boy froze, eyes going wide as a high-pitched sound struggled to leave his throat. He looked to Douglas for answers and Douglas clapped him on the back. Then he glanced around Martin and caught Arthur's eye.

"Arthur, could you run ahead and tell your mother we're here?"

"Sure thing, Douglas."

Arthur hurried off across the airfield, dutifully avoiding the paved road and skipping instead across the grass. Martin's eyes followed his every step. Even as Douglas nudged him further inside with a hand at his back, Martin barely put one foot in front of the other. His head snapped from side to side, and then up when one of the Cherokees flitted overhead on its circuit.

"I-I-I, um... y-you... Arthur's mum owns the airfield?"

Douglas scoffed and shook his head.

"No, but she owns a porta-cabin _on_ the airfield, so we've got access," he explained. "That's not to say that we shouldn't be careful where we're walking and who's work we get in the way of."

"O-of course."

"You're not going to lecture me about rules?"

"W-well, I-I... I should, really. A-and there should be better security. We shouldn't be able to just walk in here – I-I mean, we're _students_ ," Martin stammered. Then he blushed and cleared his throat, regaining his senses in as clumsy a way as Douglas was used to. Martin ran a hand over the back of his neck and kicked at the ground. "I mean, no, I'm not. Thanks... I, um... thanks for this. I-is this where we're going to be studying?"

"You could say that," Douglas replied with a shrug. He struck up a faster pace across the airfield and Martin fell into step beside him. "I just thought you'd like it, seeing as you've got your heart set on spending the rest of your life in places like this."

"Oh..." Martin was silent for so long that Douglas turned to him, about to ask what was wrong. Then Martin flushed an even darker shade of red and continued. "Thank you – _really_ , thank you."

Embarrassment twisted a tangled knot in Douglas' stomach and he hastily dropped his gaze to his own feet, digging into the frosty grass. He shrugged again, and didn't say another word until they reached the porta-cabin.

Martin seemed suitably intimidated by Carolyn Knapp-Shappey, which Douglas thought pleased her greatly if her sharkish smile was any indication. While Arthur offered up the rich tea biscuits that Carolyn kept in her drawer, Douglas saw to the introductions and used the distraction that Martin provided to rifle through the top layer of papers on Carolyn's desk.

"No, really, I'm _fine,_ " Martin insisted, waving away the tube of biscuits again as he addressed Carolyn. "I-if I'm in the way, I could go."

"You're no more in the way than Douglas is," Carolyn replied blithely. Rounding her desk, she delivered a sharp but gentle slap to the back of Douglas' hand, making him drop the printed quote for a full appraisal of her workspace. "You, Fingers – out of my paperwork, _now_."

"I'm only looking."

"Yes, well, we know perfectly well what happens when you _look_ , don't we Douglas," Carolyn replied. It wasn't a question. She ushered him out from behind her desk and took a seat. The phone rang and she took it off the hook, silencing it with a huff. "Now, if you want me to supply dinner for the three of you, you can make yourself useful – GERTI needs a thorough cleaning-"

"But Martin's a _guest_."

"Then by all means, Martin doesn't have to do any cleaning," Carolyn replied sweetly. Far too sweetly.

Martin ducked his head when she glanced at him. In an attempt to cheer him, no doubt, Arthur patted him on the back and offered some sound words of comfort, spraying biscuit crumbs into the air.

"Don't worry, Martin," he said. "You don't have to do anything. Douglas said you'd like it if we showed you GERTI."

"G-Gertie?"

"Yeah, she's great."

Martin looked to Douglas. Instead of answering his silent question, Douglas turned his attention back to Carolyn's paperwork. There was a worrying amount stacked up – more than usual. That could mean very good or very bad things. He wasn't sure what he would do if he couldn't escape to the airfield every now and again.

"Why does she need cleaning?" he asked, trying and failing to erase the concern from his tone.

"Nothing serious," Carolyn replied. "We've got some people coming round to appraise her. They want to see that the plane is fit to fly – with some professional opinions – and that I'm capable of running an airline on my own. They'll probably take a walk around the porta-cabin, look through my paperwork, and then wander off. It's tedious, but it's the only way to get the business insurance and the permission to hire pilots."

"You're starting an airline?" Martin piped up, trepidation vanishing. He still twitched, hugging his briefcase close to his body, but his curiosity had been piqued just as Douglas had hoped it would.

"Trying to," Carolyn grumbled. "Why? Are you looking for a job?"

At that, Martin looked so likely to faint that Douglas was ready to catch him.

"Y-yes! Yes, I am!"

"Well, come back when you're not in school and maybe I'll consider it," Carolyn said with an indulgent, slightly stiff smile. It was somewhere between the one she reserved for lawyers and the one she kept only for Arthur. When Martin only gaped, Carolyn turned to Arthur. "Arthur, dear-heart, why don't you take your friend outside. He didn't come all this way to stagnate in an office."

"Okay, Mum." Arthur did as he was told, depositing his bag on the sofa as he led Martin towards the door. "You coming, Douglas?"

"Just a minute," Douglas replied softly. "Wait for me outside?"

Arthur ambled outside without question. Martin hovered for a moment, catching Douglas' eye and raising an eyebrow. Then he shrugged and followed Arthur from the porta-cabin. The instant he was gone, Douglas turned to Carolyn and leaned against her desk.

"So the lawyers aren't coming after you anymore?" he asked. This time he did nothing to hide his worry.

Carolyn sighed and shook her head, touching a frazzled hand to her brow.

"No. I suppose you could say I won the divorce," she said. "The plane's mine, as is the house and a fair bit of the money. All I need to do is build up the company and get the right to actually fly the plane. Not that I know why I'm telling you this."

"To get it off your chest," Douglas suggested. "Or because you've got nobody else to talk to."

"That's enough, Douglas," Carolyn sighed, and Douglas knew to stop talking immediately. Without another moment's hesitation, Carolyn dug through her paperwork and pulled out a thin envelope. She placed it in Douglas' hand and nodded towards the door. "Want to earn your keep? Take that over to Herc on your way."

"Sweet nothings?"

"I need a pilot on side if this scheme is going to work," Carolyn said. "And... Herc has offered to work for me once everything's up and running. Not a word, Douglas. I can set a limit on how many friends Arthur's allowed over, and he's currently with a friend that isn't you."

"Threat received and understood, Mrs Knapp-Shappey."

Sensing that he was pushing his luck, Douglas made his way outside. He ignored Martin's suspicious glare and instead addressed Arthur.

"We need to go and visit Herc before we see to GERTI," he said.

As they made their way towards the hangar on the other side of the airfield, Martin hovered around Douglas like a fly.

"Where are we going now?" he demanded. "At this rate, we won't even get twenty minutes of revision in."

"Carolyn asked me to drop something off," Douglas explained. He offered Martin a tight smile and nudged him in the ribs when he was close enough. "You'll like Herc. He's a pilot."

That was enough to shut Martin up for the duration of the journey.

Just as Douglas had promised, Martin liked Herc. They only spoke to him for ten minutes or so, but Martin was relieved to get that – any advice on flight school and getting his licence from someone who had actually lived it was worth ten times anything he could get from a book. Nevertheless, the man had a job and they couldn't chat for long.

By the time they were crossing the airfield again, Martin was more worried about how much revision Douglas would do than anything else. The sky was dark already and the airfield was lit from above, but there were still hours yet until they could reasonably sit down for dinner. If they were lucky, they could fit in a few hours, but Douglas was sauntering along in the frustrating way he did, talking to Arthur, without any sign of stopping.

Martin stopped dead when he saw the Lockheed-McDonnel 312 sitting on the tarmac a short way from any hangar. He shook himself from his reverie when he saw the others keep walking, straight towards the plane without a care in the world. Realisation hit him like a punch to the gut, muddled with a faint frisson of excitement. Douglas glanced back at him as he tripped into step beside him, and a frustrating smirk tugged at his cheek.

"Alright, Martin?"

"You said Arthur had one of these," Martin said accusingly. That caught Arthur's attention, and to Martin's embarrassment both boys were looking at him. It faded in seconds, chased away by the frustrating expression on Douglas' face. "I thought you meant a model! I-I didn't know he had an actual _plane_!"

"It's not my plane," Arthur said. "It's Mum's. Now it's Mum's. It was Dad's before, but now she's got it, which is brilliant really. Dad wasn't doing anything good with it, but I think GERTI's going to make Mum really happy."

"Gertie?" Martin repeated, blinking through his confusion. He took in the brief glimpse into Arthur's home life and put it away for later. His eyes darted to the letter printed on the plane's tail and he inhaled sharply. "Oh – _Oh!_ GERTI, as in Golf, Echo-"

"Romeo, Tango, India," Douglas concluded with a jaunty smile. If Martin wasn't mistaken, there was an inkling of pride in his tone.

Martin could hardly speak as Arthur led the way onto the plane. He had the keys, so Martin assumed that they were allowed on board. It wasn't like it was the first time he had been on an aircraft, but there was something thrilling about being alone on a jet – a _private,_ very old make of jet. A fluttering filled his chest and he couldn't keep the smile from his face. He felt his cheeks burn each time Douglas glanced at him, but the other boy was grinning too as if all of his schemes had come to fruition, so Martin guessed that the whole point of this had been to impress him and embraced the opportunity.

Dropping his bag full of books onto one of the seats in the Cabin, he followed the others through to the Galley. There, Arthur left them to start making drinks, and Douglas ploughed onwards into the flight-deck, past the creaky door. Martin couldn't resist following.

Martin's breath caught in his throat as he took in the flight-deck. Douglas flicked a switch and the lights came on. Treading further inside, Martin could see the control panel and all the overhead buttons and dials. There were manuals stuffed into a compartment above the seat on the right-hand side and hats balanced in the one of the left.

It took a moment to realise that Douglas was standing aside, giving Martin his pick of seats. Swallowing the knot that formed in his throat, ignoring the aching pang in his chest that begged him to launch himself across the flight-deck and hug the other boy, Martin slipped into the Captain's seat on the left. As Douglas took the First Officer's seat, Martin gazed out at the airfield through the windscreen.

"So, what do you think, Captain Crieff?"

"Hmm?" Martin started at the sound of Douglas's voice. His eyes darted over the dials, then to Douglas' face. Then he hastily looked away, reaching out to the overhead switches before changing his mind. "O-oh, Captain – b-because I'm... I'm uh..."

"Sitting in the Captain's seat?"

"That."

"I thought you'd like this," Douglas murmured, so quietly that Martin wasn't sure he heard.

"So you did bring me here for a reason?" Martin asked.

"Just as a thank you, you know?" Douglas didn't look at him. He shrugged and nudged the yoke. Nothing happened. He cleared his throat. "You've been helping me out, even if I haven't been getting any better. Actually, I _have_... in certain areas. Anyway, I thought you'd appreciate getting to play with a real aircraft so that you have something to talk about when you get to your interviews."

At first, Martin wasn't sure what to say. He just stared at Douglas, not quite able to tear his eyes from the other boy's face. He wasn't nearly as annoying to look at when he wasn't smarming at him.

"Thank you," Martin settled for saying.

Douglas sniffed loudly and nodded. Then he prodded a button on his side of the control panel.

"Press that," he instructed.

"The ground proximity warning?"

"So you know what it is," Douglas remarked. "Of course you do. Go on then, press it."

Reluctantly, expecting someone to leap out and punish them both, Martin reached across Douglas and pressed the button.

Before he had time to move back, the panel let out a throaty cry of ' _PULL UP – PULL UP!'_. A faint chuckle escaped him, and he could practically feel Douglas grinning inches away from him.

"It does lots of things like that," Douglas said.

"We're on the ground."

"Exactly. She's a funny little plane," Douglas replied. "So I suppose you know what all of these buttons and knobs do then?"

"Of course I do," Martin said, brimming with pride. He remembered to sit back and settle himself in his seat. His mind drifted towards the books in the Cabin, but something stopped him from mentioning them. He caught Douglas' eye and fought another smile as his cheeks tickled. "I-I could tell you, if you like."

"Sounds like a plan," Douglas agreed. He leaned closer. Martin stiffened momentarily, until he realised that Douglas was pointing to something over his shoulder. "Toss me a hat, would you?"

Letting out a shaky breath, Martin reached back for the pilots' hats. He handed Douglas the First Officer's hat, and scoffed when the boy balanced it precariously atop his head. His own Captain's hat was secured properly, and felt another warm flood of pride and excitement. It was like being six years old again. Even Douglas looked cheerful. It would have been a shame to ruin that. Clearing his throat and biting his lip, Martin pointed towards the centre of the control panel.

"Well, um, th-that there is an altimeter."

"There are two of them," Douglas noted.

"That's in case one goes wrong..."

It was like a game. Martin named as many as he could before Douglas remembered the names of a scarce few. Carolyn must have told him what the instruments did at some point, and despite his apparent issues with written work, Douglas was good at retaining the information relating to the flying of the plane. For a while, Martin considered the chance that Douglas might just be better with tangible tasks – then Douglas nudged him and he realised that he had been silent and staring at the other boy for a full minute.

Arthur came in after a while, carrying drinks for them. Then he disappeared again to carry out the cleaning that Carolyn had requested, reassuring Martin that he enjoyed it before he could rise and try to help. Every now and then Arthur buzzed in on the intercom to say hello, but other than that Martin was left alone with Douglas. He couldn't say that he minded.

"You know, you could come for a kick about sometime," Douglas remarked, seemingly out of nowhere. There was a lull in the flight-deck, and a thoughtful softness in Douglas' tone. "With the boys, at lunch – or after school."

Suddenly, Martin felt awkward. Again, something fluttered inside him, but he could only glance down at the dusty instruments.

"I-I'm not really a kick about kind of person," he replied, genuinely apologetic.

"Well, that's alright," Douglas assured him. "You will come and see the play though, won't you? I'm not Macbeth, but I'll be sure to put on one hell of a show."

"Sure – I-I mean, of course."

"You don't have to."

"No, I'd love to," Martin replied quickly. "I'm sure you'll be great."

Douglas nodded gratefully. His energy seemed to wane, and he picked at the threads in the arm of his seat. Martin didn't wait for him to speak. He was sure that he wouldn't. It was a surprise, therefore, when Douglas' voice reached his ears.

"I am grateful, you know," he said. "For you helping me."

Martin swallowed his surprise. Instead of speaking, he nodded and raised an eyebrow, urging Douglas to keep talking. The boy's eyes searched his face, and if Martin wasn't mistaken, he was nervous. It was a strange thought.

"I just... I _do_ want to pass my exams. I have to. I can't get into university if I don't," Douglas murmured. His gaze dropped to the arm of his seat. "A-and I need to know what's going on, when I get there. It's just... it's difficult. You know? And my parents think I'm doing well, even though they _know_ I'm not – No, they _expect_ me to do well, which they should, because I do well in most things."

"You're not doing awfully," Martin interjected, as loudly as he dared.

"That's the problem," Douglas sighed. "I don't know what's wrong with me. But... it's good that you're helping. I think... Martin, I think I _need_ you. At the start of the year, _wanting_ to do well was enough to keep me going, but now... even though I care, I just don't... _care_. It's like I'm exhausted whenever I pick up a pen, and I need someone to keep me going."

"Well, I... I-I'm happy to help."

"Are you?"

Douglas' eyes were so wide that Martin couldn't bear to lie.

"I-I mean, yes... I am. I wasn't at first, b-but now." Martin ran a hand over his neck and shrugged, and then glanced around the flight-deck. "Y-you've done all this for me – a-and I know you're going to say you're just being a good friend, but you're really supportive about me being a pilot. You have been from the start. S-so... if you want to be a doctor, I'll help you get there, whatever it takes."

And he meant it. For the first time, Martin didn't feel like Douglas was a weight on his shoulders.

Douglas didn't smile. He just nodded and grunted slightly, staring down at his hand.

"You do _want_ to be a doctor, don't you?"

"I suppose," Douglas replied. "It's just hard."

"I know."

Without thinking, Martin reached out to place a hand over Douglas. The motion had the double benefit of blocking Douglas' view of his own knuckles whilst also startling the boy out of his reverie. Honesty hour was over, it seemed. Nevertheless, the strangeness of Douglas' hand in his was comforting. When he caught his eye, Martin smiled, and was relieved to see Douglas smile back. He gave his hand a squeeze and Douglas pressed his thumb into the side of Martin's finger.

Martin removed his hand when Douglas inhaled sharply and righted his posture. His confidence was back, even if it was fragile and obviously forced. He watched as Douglas tilted his hat to the side and prodded the button for the ground proximity warning.

His bag of books was still in the Cabin. It wasn't worth ruining the afternoon to go back for them. For now, Martin was content to enjoy what was possibly one of the best days of his life. Giving in, he tipped his own Captain's hat half an inch to the left and reached for the intercom.

The grin Douglas shot him was worth it.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter Eight

Three days before Christmas, Martin was disturbed by an irritable pounding on his bedroom door. A moment later, Caitlin stuck her head inside. Like their dad, she was already wrapped in a garish seasonal jumper – so was he, but at least he had the decency to stay in his room and save his family's eyes from the sight of crudely knitted reindeers.

"Martin, there's someone at the door for you," Caitlin grumbled.

She was half-way gone before Martin had time to do more than lower his book.

"Wh-what? Who is it?"

Martin glanced towards the window. Fitton wasn't exactly a winter wonderland, but there was a thin layer of frost on the ground and the sky was a murky grey. The wind was the loudest thing for miles around. He couldn't imagine who would be mad enough to come out when it was so cold.

Caitlin reappeared with a flick of her hair.

"How should I know?" she replied. "Just some boy."

Letting curiosity get the better of him, Martin rolled from his bed – taking care to leave his book page down so that he didn't lose his place – and made his way through the house. Doing so was like forging a path through an assault course. Between the tree and the presents, the decorations hanging from the ceiling and every available cabinet, and his parents puttering about being festive and talking to distant relatives on the phone, it was impossible to reach the front door without being intercepted.

Somehow, Martin managed it. The front door was ajar, letting in a biting chill.

He pushed it open and was met with the sight of Douglas Richardson. The other boy was wrapped in a thick coat, dark hair blown out of place. His cheeks were unusually pink where the wind had bitten them. He stood tall with a confident smile, but Martin noted the way his gloved hands wrung together. Something leapt in Martin's chest at the sight of him.

Unfortunately, in the same moment, Douglas' eyes darted to Martin's shoulder, and Martin realised that a length of tinsel had become tangled in his jumper.

"Douglas!" Martin exclaimed in lieu of greeting as he hastily snatched at the tinsel. Douglas' smile grew as he tossed the sparkling golden rope over his shoulder. "Wh-what are you doing here? I thought you might..."

"Might what?"

"Have plans? N-not that I'm not pleased to see you."

Douglas slipped his hands into his pockets and shrugged. With slow, sauntering movements he lessened the space between them and leaned against the doorframe, out of the cold. Martin only stepped back far enough to give him room to breathe, and no more.

"It's good to see you too, Martin. I wasn't actually sure that you'd be in. We didn't really talk about Christmas before, you know?" Douglas said. His tone was even, but there was a certain quickness in his speech that gave him away. "Anyway, it's plans that I'm here about. I um..." Douglas' eyes darted down to the ground as he pushed a hand through his hair, and Martin was so distracted following the motion that he forgot to take advantage of the stumble. "I was wondering what your plans were, for Christmas?"

"Christmas?" Martin repeated. He blinked dumbly for a moment, and then jolted out of his reverie. "Oh, well, I-I-I um – just the usual really. Family stuff. Presents, dinner... that sort of thing. Why?"

"No reason," Douglas replied. A second later he frowned, as if at his own nonchalance, and leaned more heavily against the doorframe. "I'm doing the same – a family Christmas that is. Boxing Day though-"

"I don't think I'm doing anything on Boxing Day," Martin interjected, only detachedly realising that he had no idea what he was agreeing to.

"Good – good... that's good," Douglas said. Again, he looked towards the ground before catching Martins' eye. "Arthur's doing Boxing Day at his house. He does it every year and Carolyn's said you can come too if you like – you can bring Theresa if you want."

"Theresa's on holiday with her family."

"Oh, well then... just you?"

Martin stared at Douglas without speaking, mouth open. He clamped it shut and nodded. A part of him remembered that he should probably ask his parents first, but he dismissed it. An even more surprising part of him was thrilled at the thought of spending time with Douglas out of school – like friends that weren't only friends out of obligation.

"I'd love to," Martin said before he could talk himself out of it. Douglas nodded and Martin stepped back. He didn't think through the motion. It was instinctual. "Do you, um... w-would you like to come in?"

Douglas glanced over Martin's shoulder and hugged his coat more securely around himself. Then he shook his head.

"I should get back," he said. "My parents have the week off, and my brother's home for a few days. Then they're all back to work on Boxing Day – hence why I'm free to bestow upon you the gift of my company."

"Right – right... well... alright then. That's nice," Martin stammered. He belatedly realised that he knew nothing about Douglas' family. He'd never even stepped foot in his house.

For a moment neither of them spoke, or made any move at all. Martin caught Douglas' eye and Douglas smiled awkwardly, running a hand through his hair again and leaving it thoroughly out of place. As hard as he tried to smile and think of something to say, Martin couldn't find anything. Mercifully, Douglas cleared his throat and swaggered back a few steps, out of Martin's space. All of a sudden, Martin felt as if he could breathe again – he couldn't recall ever stopping.

"Well then, I s'pose I'll see you on Boxing Day then?" Douglas drawled, just short of casual. Martin nodded hastily and Douglas fidgeted, bringing his hands together before hiding them again. "You've never been to Arthur's house before, have you? I'll come and get you before lunch starts."

"Alright."

"Good." Douglas nodded again. He turned to walk away, and then paused. A familiar smirk pulled at his lips. "Oh, and Martin?"

"Hm?"

Douglas' eyes darted down.

"Wear that jumper."

As Douglas sauntered away, leaving Martin standing in the doorway, Martin glanced down. With the crushing weight of embarrassment, he realised that he was still wearing the ridiculous be-reindeered jumper. His cheeks burned as his hands flew to cover his face, but it was too late. The damage was done.

Cursing his luck, Martin hurried inside.

Christmas in the Richardson household was a conservative affair, but a merry one as well.

Alice Richardson, dedicated as she was to her work, liked nothing more than to put her feet up and enjoy the smaller things – specially made cranberry jelly, the candy canes that hung from the tree, and the Queen's speech at 3pm. It gave her time to relax and mellowed her for a day or two.

Clarke Richardson, on the other hand, was regimented and traditional. Under his instruction, they woke early (having decided when both of his sons were young that taking them to midnight Mass was a mistake best not repeated), remained in their pyjamas until after a family breakfast, _then_ opened presents from extended family. Presents from each other were kept until _after_ a carefully planned lunch, and then they were allowed some leeway before the mulled wine and singing. In recent years, he had insisted that Douglas play the piano – to keep him in practice.

It was a comfort, really. Douglas allowed himself to relax as best he could. In a few short weeks he would be back in school and revision would take over the curriculum – and he hadn't even mastered the facts yet. With Martin's aid, he had just about got through every practice piece and homework assignment, but in doing so had limited the time he could spend on class-work and actually studying the subjects as a whole.

On Christmas day, however, Douglas didn't have to worry. He sat curled up on the corner of the sofa with a book in his lap and the remote balanced on his knee so that his brother couldn't put something loud on the television. There was nothing to worry about in reality. His brother was busy haranguing their father in the kitchen – apparently there were better ways of cooking a turkey, and their father wasn't having his 'new fangled – Generation X nonsense' when it came to Christmas dinner.

Alice strode into the living room with a groan, rolling the knots from her shoulders. She planted herself down beside the twinkling tree and began sorting the presents into piles. They had splashed out this year.

"You're awfully quiet, Dougie."

Douglas looked up at the sound of his mother's voice. He had been watching her from the corner of his eye. Against his will, he had been doing that a lot lately. It was almost as if some part of him expected her to turn around and accuse him of slacking – of not trying hard enough.

"I'm fine, Mum."

"Are you sure? You've been quiet all week," Alice pushed. "Are you coming down with something."

"No, I'm _fine_ ," Douglas insisted. Eager to change the subject, he pushed his book aside and slid right to the edge of the sofa. "Have you decided what you'd like me to play later?"

"Oh, I think Silent Night and the Holly and the Ivy will do – and something bouncy, I think. You decide," Alice replied with a soft smile. She sighed and gazed into the middle-distance. "You know, Dougie – medicine's a difficult subject and takes up a lot of time, but when you get to university, you should consider joining the orchestra – or maybe the choir."

Something warm caught light in Douglas' chest.

"I quite like musical theatre, actually," he said, winding his fingers through the cuffs of his jumper.

"Hmm, yes, I can see you doing that," Alice agreed. "Just as long as you don't let it get in the way of your studies."

Douglas nodded obediently.

For a while he watched his mother sort through the presents. Douglas only shook himself from his trance when she lifted a small rectangular package wrapped in green under his nose.

"Is this one of yours, dear?"

Reaching out, perhaps too quickly, Douglas took the present from her.

"Oh, yes, it's... it's for a friend of mine. And that one there – that's for Arthur." Douglas pointed to another long, but far smaller present that still nestled under the tree. Buying for Arthur was easy. He liked chocolate and colourful things. "I'm seeing them tomorrow – you remember?"

"Of course I remember," Alice replied. "You make sure to thank Mrs Knapp-Shappey for inviting you," she instructed. While Douglas nodded, she passed him Arthur's present. "This friend of yours. Why haven't we seen them yet?"

"No reason," Douglas muttered with a shrug.

"Is she a pretty girl?"

At that, Douglas couldn't quite stifle a smirk, even as something twisted in his stomach. Since he had reached his teens, he had brought two pretty girls home with him – the last when he was sixteen and had thought she was the love of his life. It had ended and Douglas had realised that she wasn't, in fact, the anything of his life. Once he had brought a pretty _boy_ home with him, but his mother didn't need to know that. She had brought them takeaway on her way home from work and asked the lad about the school's football team – and why Douglas, who was quite good at football, was only a reserve.

Martin, Douglas had to admit, was quite nice to look at. He was also a friend – a good friend, even if things were sometimes strained between them.

Martin was exactly the _friend_ that Douglas' parents would have been thrilled to meet. Nevertheless, Douglas couldn't stomach the thought of that happening. There was the small matter of his shame at needing a tutor – of _their_ shame if they found out.

Then... there was something more. They had met Arthur many times, but Martin... there was something about their friendship that Douglas didn't want to share with them. There was an honesty there – a trust that it was difficult to come by. It was usually found in the shockingly good – like Arthur, for instance. No... Martin was his. He didn't want his impression of him marred by what Martin might see or hear.

It was selfish and childish, but Douglas didn't care. They had fun.

"He's just some boy in my Physics class," Douglas said, turning the gifts over in his hands. "Sometimes he spends breaks with Arthur and I."

"Isn't that nice," Alice hummed. Her attention was already back on the presented under the tree, not interested now that the prospect of a girlfriend was no longer on the table. "You should bring him over some time. You know your friends are always welcome."

"Hmmm..."

Growing restless, Douglas hurried to stash his gifts in his room, and then joined his father and brother in the kitchen. Upon finding them mid-way through an argument over whether parsnips were supposed to go inside the turkey, most of Douglas' worries were blown away and replaced by exasperation. He accepted a small glass of brandy from his father – stifling his surprise as Clarke explained that he was old enough now to enjoy the same drinks as the rest of them – and settled back to watch.

The BBCs Christmas repeats were blaring in the living room. The remnants of lunch remained on the table, where they would be dealt with in the hours to come. Simon and Caitlin were loudly competing to beat their mother at a game of monopoly that had turned into a small war. All of this was joined by the sound of hammering as Raymond Crieff constructed the miniature cabinet that he had bought his wife for the corner beside the sofa.

Martin let the racket wash over him. Desperation had taken hold. He had already rifled through his room, searching for money and scraping together as much as he could. His boot were tied and all he needed now was his coat – his coat which had been taken by his mother so that she could stitch shut a hole in the sleeve, and which had never been returned.

It was too cold to go out without it.

In his frustration, Martin wandered around the kitchen, opening and closing the cutlery drawers until they rattled. He knew he wouldn't find his coat there, but it made his feel better. He didn't stop until his dad entered the room and dropped a plastic wine glass (bought one year to stop three children from knocking over the expensive ones when mulled wine was offered up in a rush) into the sink.

"You looking for something, son?"

"My coat," Martin muttered. Then he whirled around. "Are the shops open today, do you reckon?"

"On Christmas day?" Raymond replied.

Martin's shoulders slumped. Huffing, he threw himself down into one of the kitchen's wooden chairs and sagged over the table.

"Well that's just great – what's the point?"

Raymond raised his eyebrows and whistled through his teeth. Then he took a seat on the other side of the table and leaned across so that they could see eye to eye. Bundled in one of the family's garish jumpers, he wasn't nearly as grown-up looking as normal.

Martin sighed and raised his head.

"Dad..."

"Martin, son, do you want to just come out and tell me what's wrong, or shall I guess?"

"It's nothing, really," Martin said quickly. He picked violently at his sleeve. "It's just, I'm seeing a friend tomorrow – you know – and I haven't got him a gift. I-I mean, there are going to be two friends there, b-but Arthur won't want anything too big. B-but I haven't got anything yet – I had two whole days before today, a-and I got _nothing_."

"Did you agree to a Secret Santa or something?"

"No, but-"

"But what?" Raymond interrupted. "I'm sure if you asked nicely, your Mum will knock up a homemade Christmas pudding. Actually, I'm sure she's got some in the cupboard. She's been baking all week."

"I _know_ , and that's fine for Arthur, but..." Martin trailed off and stared down at his hands as something swooped in his stomach.

It wasn't good enough. He and Douglas hadn't discussed Christmas at all. Douglas probably wasn't even getting anything for him. Still... the thought of turning up without something was... Martin couldn't quite put his finger on it. He wanted to see the look on Douglas' face when he opened... _something_ – to catch him off guard and cheer him up. Martin squirmed just thinking about it as he felt his dad's eyes on him.

"Martin..." Raymond waited until Martin's eyes were on him before continuing. When he spoke, it was with careful attention to the words. He didn't quite meet Martin's gaze, and Martin felt the weight of that fact. "This isn't a... a _special_ friend, is it?"

"Wh-what?" Martin startled, sitting up straight as his cheeks burned. " _No_ – n- _no_ – i-it's _Douglas_. You've met Douglas – it's just Douglas."

Raymond nodded in a slow, thoughtful way that brought Martin's nerves right to the surface.

"Right, well, Douglas is a nice lad," he said. "But, Martin, it seems to me-"

"What? Wh-what does it seem? It's just _Douglas_ , Dad," Martin insisted. His tongue felt heavy, laced with acid even though he wasn't _lying_ – not really – but it felt like it. "He's just... he's harder to please than Arthur, o-or Theresa. He's... he's particular, a-and he's not always... he's not always happy, per se, and I... he's invited me over to Arthur's and I just – I-I'd feel bad if I didn't get him something – o-or if I did and he hated it."

By the end of it, Martin wished he could bury his head in his hands.

After a moment's silence, Raymond cleared his throat and reached out to pat Martin's arm.

"Well... what does he like?"

"Wh-what?"

"This Douglas lad. What does he like?"

"U-um..." Martin stammered and swallowed the lump in his throat. His cheeks were still warm but as he ran a hand over the back of his neck, that was the least of his worries. He shrugged and squirmed. "I-I guess he likes a lot of things... Th-that's why it's so difficult. Douglas is... he's good at so many things, b-but he barely pays the things he's good at any attention."

"You've been spending a lot of time together," Raymond said.

"So what?"

"So... think a little harder, Martin."

Martin did as he was told for once, staring down at the table and the greasy plates piled high with bare bones and used cutlery.

"I-I suppose he likes... Douglas really likes the theatre. A-and music – b-but old music," he said, unsure of himself. He should have said sports, Martin thought, or being clever. "I-I mean, that's when he seems most... he's really excited about Macbeth in the Spring. A-and he likes old music. He's been making me play Classic FM when we study."

"You know what, Martin, I think I've got just the solution," Raymond replied. Barely a second had passed – not long enough for him to really think. Nevertheless, Martin's heart leapt at the confidence in his father's tone as he pushed back from the table. "If someone's hard to buy for, you get them something personal. If the shops are closed, then you _definitely_ give them something personal." He patted Martin's hand. "How about you and me have a look through the garage."

"The _garage_?"

"There're a lot of boxes back there – some things your friend will like, I think."

In that moment, Martin could have thrown his arms around his father. Nodding so hard that his head could have flown away, he hurried to his feet and urged his dad to do the same. Some of his panic began to abate.

Just as he had promised, Douglas met Martin at his house. Martin was toting a rucksack that he was oddly protective of. In return, Douglas didn't let Martin look in the back that held his present.

The walk to Carolyn's house was long, but Douglas filled it by asking Martin to relate his entire Christmas. Next to the chaos that Martin's siblings created, Douglas' own day seemed dull... so he found a way not to talk about it.

The Knapp-Shappey residence was grand and old-fashioned, with multiple rooms – the result of Gordon Shappey's large bank account. It was also noticeably empty with only the two of them there. Nevertheless, Martin had gazed around the cosy rooms with awe and Douglas had had to shake his shoulder to get him to move.

Boxing Day dinner lasted longer than the actual meal. Carolyn had done most of the cooking... and Arthur had done enough to keep it interesting. By the time they all left the table, the sky was dark and the late afternoon was drawing nearer.

"Alright, you useless trio," Carolyn announced as she rose to her feet. The table was a mess – partly the fault of Arthur's colourful jellies and breads – partly due to Douglas' decision to flick a Christmas cracker at Martin, who had returned the favour only to have it land in the mashed potatoes. Carolyn surveyed it all as she brought her hands together and declared with a smile that was warmer than usual. "I am going to go into the living room, where I shall ingest a heroic amount of Christmas sherry. You are welcome to join me – in the living room, not in the drinking of the sherry – once the kitchen is habitable."

"Can we put the Christmas album on?" Arthur asked.

"Oh, why not?" Carolyn replied with a terrifying amount of wry cheer. "If the gods shine upon us, I'll be asleep by the time you start singing."

"Brilliant!"

Douglas waited until Arthur was busy dropping dishes into the sink before prodding Martin's elbow. Martin startled and whirled around, and Douglas placed a finger to his lips. He hooked a hand around Martin's arm and guided him from the kitchen. Something twisted in his stomach as Martin stumbled, glancing back at the kitchen, but he ignored it.

They only went as far as the hall.

"Douglas, what's going on?"

"Nothing's going on, Martin. Have a little faith in me," Douglas replied as he located his bag. Taking care to shield it with his body, he pulled out Martin's gift and tucked it against his chest. It shouldn't be so embarrassing. "I just wanted to give you something – preferably without those two looking on."

The moment Martin's eyes landed on the green-wrapped present, he stilled. His mouth fell open in a small 'oh' and he shuffled his feet. Douglas immediately regretted all of the secrecy. It would have been so much easier in front of Arthur and Carolyn. He could have shrugged it off as nothing. It _was_ nothing, and yet it _wasn't_. He couldn't shake the feeling that this was _their_ thing. Arthur had been thrilled with his Toblerone, and had hugged Martin upon receiving a homemade Christmas pudding. It had been simple.

By pulling Martin away from the group and keeping it between them, Douglas had gone and made this far from _simple_. He wasn't sure what it was.

"O-oh... I... i-is that for me?" Martin asked. His cheeks were bright red but he seemed relieved.

"Well it's your name on the label," Douglas replied. With that, he closed the space between them and pushed the gift into Martin's hands.

Martin fumbled with the wrapping paper to the point that Douglas considered reaching out and tearing it off for him. Eventually though, he got it off and revealed the book inside. His eyes darted back and forth as he turned it over in his hands. Against his will, Douglas' hands wrung together and he held his breath.

When the anticipation grew too much, he anxiously cleared his throat.

"You're very difficult to buy for. I wasn't sure which books you already had – most of them, I assume." Douglas paused as Martin's eyes met his, and then hastily continued. "I figured you already have all the manuals and history books, so that's an autobiography – the autobiography of a fighter pilot. I know you want to fly commercial aircraft, but a plane's a plane, isn't it?"

"It's great, Douglas – really it is," Martin cut in. His voice was strained but Douglas was relieved to see him smile. "I-I don't have it. I um... thank you." Before Douglas could do more than nod, Martin burst into action. "I-I have something for you! I-I wasn't sure whether you were getting me anything, b-but I didn't want to come without a gift after you invited me, so... so, s-so I um... I'll just get it out."

Douglas watched as Martin pulled his rucksack down from its hook and rifled through it. He wasn't sure what to say. He was touched, but didn't want to admit it. He didn't think much of anything until Martin was feet in front of him and a thin parcel was pushed into his grasp.

"I-it's... a-actually, don't say anything until you've opened it," Martin said. Douglas started to open it, and Martin spoke again. "I-it's just, I didn't know what to get you, s-so this is sort of... you can think of it as an antique – o-or as vintage. M-my dad helped my find it."

Martin said more, but Douglas ignored him. Silence only fell when Douglas was looking down at a dusty record declaring itself the original recording of Les Miserables.

"It's not much-"

"It's perfect," Douglas said. He caught Martin's eye and grinned, taking care to catch his breath. "I think my mum's got a record player in her room. Really, Martin, this is... this is amazing."

Without hesitation, Douglas threw his arms around the other boy. The hug was quick and brief, but when he pulled away Douglas could still feel Martin's warmth. He could still see Martin's cheeks, glowing red.

"So..."

"So, should we rejoin the others?" Douglas suggested before Martin could stammer.

Martin nodded gratefully. He tucked his book away in his rucksack, and Douglas slid the record into his own bag, then they crept back into the kitchen. Arthur was still there, but now the air was filled with the cheerful jingle of Mariah Carey as it floated from the living room.


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter Nine

"What about this one?"

Douglas appeared from the costume cupboard dressed in a frilly coat that had caught his attention. It was perhaps a bit _too_ frilly, but he supposed he was playing a man from the 11th century, written by a man in the 17th. He performed a small twirl as Arthur looked up from the 'bench' that he was painting for the show – more of a wooden block really, shaded to look comfortable when it really wasn't.

"It's brilliant, Douglas!"

"As brilliant as the last?"

"Well... I like it."

Shaking his head, Douglas glanced down at the coat. Then he removed it. Best not.

They continued for a while, Douglas trying on different costumes while Arthur painted shaky lines that looked nothing like the stone of Macbeth's castle. Every now and then they paused and Arthur called out prompts.

"What does Banquo say when he sees the witches?"

"What are these So wither'd and so wild in their attire, That look not like the inhabitants o' the earth, And yet are on't? Live you? or are you aught That man may question?" Douglas recited.

"Brilliant," Arthur exclaimed.

"Did I get it right?"

"I don't know, but it _sounded_ great."

Douglas brushed this off with a roll of his eyes. He was sure that he hadn't tripped – it was easier now without the script under his nose, putting him off. Now the words rolled from his tongue. Martin would be proud of his dedication.

The peace was disturbed when Martin himself burst into the backstage area. Douglas was so surprised to see him that at first he didn't notice Theresa trailing along in his wake. Just like that, the quiet stillness of the theatre was ruined by the cloud of clumsiness and noise. Martin's rucksack was packed full of books, as usual.

"Douglas! There you are," Martin announced himself without a care for the sacred hush that rehearsal slots deserved. "We've been looking for you."

"I'm a bit busy at the moment," Douglas replied quickly. There was no doubt in his mind over what Martin needed, and he had no desire to take part. "I'll come over tomorrow and we can revise to your heart's content."

Martin shook his head and smirked that frustrating smirk that grew whenever he thought that he had got the upper hand.

"No, no, no – we'll be revising now," he said. "There's no teacher here, wh-which means this is an _optional_ rehearsal, a-and that means we can squeeze in an hour of learning before your practice essay tomorrow."

"How do you know about _that_?"

"I looked at your timetable."

That was that, it seemed. Since Christmas, they had been spending more time together without needing to make excuses. Martin had grown more confident in demanding Douglas' time - too demanding, perhaps.

Soon enough, the two of them were sitting half-way up the steps between the theatre seats, with Martin's books spread out between them. Other students were blocking their scene on the stage, filling the air with a constant chatter. Eager not to abandon them, Arthur had moved his attention to the fake portraits that would sit at the back of the stage. Theresa joined him with a paintbrush and far more skill.

Douglas watched them as Martin fussed with his books, bringing out papers and pens.

"You know, this place hasn't changed in years," Theresa mused as she dabbed at the curling beard of a painted King Duncan.

"Really? How can you tell?" Arthur asked.

"I used to spend a lot of time in here, before I was 'encouraged' to be more academic," Theresa explained. "That was before Martin moved here – I think I was twelve."

"Oh, I remember," Douglas remarked. "You did a very good Cinderella."

Theresa shot him a dazzling smile and draped herself over the folding seats. She could still reach the painting, and corrected Arthur's smudges without even looking.

"I was born to be a princess, Darling," she drawled. Then she shrugged and flicked her hair over her shoulder. "I can't say I miss it. If quitting everything that I once loved gets me onto an Economics course, it'll be worth it. My mother's said she'll fund a Gap year – I can travel as far as I want – every country on the map."

Douglas swallowed a pang of envy and focused instead on a wistful sense of longing. Eager as he was to get a move on and become a doctor – to get the waiting out of the way – he couldn't deny the part of him that wanted to run away, if only for a while.

"I'd give anything to see the world," he muttered.

"Why don't you?"

"Yeah, you could ride on Mum's plane," Arthur interjected.

Douglas scoffed and shook his head.

"As nice an idea as that is, Arthur, I don't think so," he said. Douglas glanced towards Theresa and offered her a thin, queasy smile. "Maybe one day I'll go adventuring, but for now... there are more important things to worry about."

"Like _these_ for example," Martin said brightly. With that, he dropped a stack of practice essays into his lap that had been printed hastily from the internet. He grinned to himself and clapped his hands together. "Now, shall we start with the papers or an oral test?"

Douglas sighed.

"I supposed I'm not tired of your voice yet."

That earned him a bashful sort of smile that was replaced by indignation. Martin pouted and pulled a text-book from his bag. Douglas couldn't read it upside down, but he recognised the colours and shapes of his Psychology book.

"Right, well then... let's start with questions and answers," Martin said, flicking to a page in the centre of the book. "Reconstructive Memory."

"Bartlett?"

"Ye-es... but... you can't just write that in an exam, can you?" Martin prompted him. "They're going to want at least six marks."

Biting his tongue to stop from saying more, Douglas stole a glance at the others. Neither of them were paying him any attention. Neither were the people on the stage. Some of the creeping beneath his skin eased.

"Fine, it's... it's..." Douglas knew the answer. He scrambled to find the right words. "It's when you can't remember anything clearly so... so your brain fills in the gaps."

"Exactly. That's perfect," Martin replied. He didn't raise his eyes from the book. "But, you know, you need more than that. I-if you could give me the whole six marks – Hypothesis, Method, Results, Analysis – that's what you need to write. Shall we try again."

As Martin caught his eye, Douglas had to fight not to squirm. Instead, he steeled himself for embarrassment and tried his hardest to produce something of worth. He couldn't remember the exact wording in the book, but he supposed that he could muster up something. He wasn't such a good liar for nothing. Measuring every word, Douglas answered Martin's questions to the best of his abilities, thinking all the while of far off countries and travelling without ties.

English was one of the few classes in which Martin didn't sit right at the front. He sat in the second row back, alone with his bag on the desk beside him and his various course books spread out around him. As much as he liked the subject, and knew that it was important to the Aviation Academy, it was also a drain on his time.

About twenty minutes into the lesson, something light bounced off the back of Martin's head. He turned to see Arthur, red faced and trying not to look conspicuous. He was failing. At first, Arthur was trying so hard to look at the ceiling that he didn't see Martin raise an eyebrow.

The moment Martin turned around again, another ball of paper collided with his neck.

" _What_?" he hissed as he turned around.

Arthur didn't say a word. Instead, he made 'come here' motions. Martin raised an eyebrow again, and Arthur motioned for him to join him. Martin glanced towards the teacher, whose back was turned. He looked back to Arthur, who shrugged. With a groan, Martin raised his hand into the air. Then he cleared his throat.

"Um, Miss..." Martin waited until the teacher turned and glared expectantly. "I-I um... the sun's in my eyes. Do you mind if I move back a few rows?"

The teacher's eyes travelled to the window, through which there was nothing to see but grey skies and torrential rain. She sighed and turned back to the board.

"Make it quick."

Piling his things into his arms, Martin stumbled back through the classroom and dropped down beside Arthur. Arthur opened his mouth to speak, but Martin glared at him until he was sure that the teacher wasn't paying attention. Most of their classmates were leaning on their hands and doodling instead of taking notes, but it never hurt to be too careful.

"What is it?" Martin whispered.

"Oh, nothing important, I just wanted to catch you before you and Douglas ran off together at the end of the day," Arthur explained, voice slightly too loud. "I wanted your opinion because... you know..."

"No, Arthur, I don't know," Martin replied. "What is it?"

"It's just... after school's finished with, and we've done our exams, you're going to become a pilot, aren't you?"

Martin nodded slowly and Arthur continued.

"And you're applying to Oxford Aviation Academy?"

"Y-yes... why?"

Arthur paused a moment. His eyes flickered towards the teacher and his cheeks turned red. Lately, Martin had learned that Arthur was a terrible liar, and even worse at keeping secrets – he couldn't keep things to himself for too long. If he was being secretive, it must have been important. Martin leaned in close, bending his arm so that it looked like he was taking notes. That motion made Arthur relax ever so slightly.

"Alright... you can't tell Douglas," Arthur instructed.

"Why not?" Martin asked, brow furrowing. "I-I thought you were friends?"

"We _are_ ," Arthur said. He shrugged and squirmed slightly, forcing a smile that was closer to a grimace than anything Martin had seen before. "But... you know how he can be, sometimes. He likes to tease... and he's good at it."

"Yeah... he does," Martin agreed.

He could recall easily the light in Douglas' eyes whenever his lips curled into a smirk and he discovered a burst of energy – the sort that carried him around Martin's bedroom to fiddle with model aeroplanes instead of studying. Then again... Douglas only pushed when there were other things on his mind. He only picked at the threads of Martin's patience when he was struggling to piece together the information that he needed to get through his exams.

"I mean, I'll tell Douglas later, but... Alright, this is a big thing, and you're the only person I can talk to about it," Arthur said. He took a deep breath, and then continued, twice as quickly. "After I turn eighteen at the end of the year, Mum's getting me an interview at the Oxford Aviation Academy."

"You want to be a _pilot_?"

"Yeah, ever since I was a kid. My Dad's a pilot... well, he _was_... now he's just got a plane... although not anymore..." Arthur shrugged again, smile faltering. "Anyway, I just thought because _you're_ going to apply, that maybe we could apply together – not together, but on the same day. You know?"

"Oh, well... I guess," Martin agreed, blinking through his surprise.

"And um... could you maybe coach me through it?" Arthur asked quickly. "You're doing such a good job with Douglas – he talks about you all the time, even when he's making fun of you – which he doesn't do."

Martin nodded and rolled his eyes, letting the comment go. He glanced towards the teacher and made a point and picking up his pen, if only to appear as if he was paying attention. A bitter sort of pride trickled through him. He may not have wanted to help Douglas in the first place, but having Arthur actually _come_ to him... there was something rewarding about it. Fighting a grin, Martin sat up straight and tipped up his chin.

"I'd be happy to help, Arthur."

The next few weeks passed in a blur. Between classes, homework, study sessions with Martin, play rehearsals, football practices with the boys, and afternoons earning money at the airfield, Douglas barley had a moment to himself. When he was left alone during the day, he sought out Martin.

More often than not, he found Martin occupied filling Arthur's head with interview tactics. Rather than wandering around on his own and facing that niggling fear under his skin – the one that hissed that he was wasting time as the exams drew nearer – Douglas spent his breaks with Theresa. There was some joy to be found in swapping stories of overbearing parents and the desperate need to escape – if Douglas had one complaint, it was that Theresa had far more certainty than he.

"The silly thing is, I'm pushing myself hard enough as it is," Douglas bemoaned one lunchtime as he sat beneath the shade of a tree. "The last thing I need is someone leaning over my shoulder, giving me _more_ work to do."

"At least your parents want the same as you, don't they?" Theresa asked. She lay back with her ankles crossed, twirling her hair around her fingertips.

"Hmm... I suppose," Douglas replied. "I suppose they know how hard medicine is – and surgery's even harder. Sometimes I think they're trying to convince me _not_ to make it... I don't know."

"You should ignore them – take some time to yourself."

"Easy for you to say."

"Believe me, if it were easy for me to say, I'd be long gone by now," Theresa snorted. "My mother's so busy she doesn't have _time_ to nag. My sisters are young, Maxi's even younger – someone's got to look after them. Until I'm university age, Mother won't pay anyone to do it so... I get accepted, and then I take a year off – straight to Malaga, and then the Amazon." With a sigh, Theresa turned towards him. "You could come too, you know – while the boys are learning to fly."

"No, I couldn't," Douglas replied. "Although, I am grateful... really..."

Unlike Martin, Theresa never pushed. She simply nodded and lapsed into a comfortable silence, eyes closed against the harsh January sky.

By the time Douglas was tucked away at home, wrapped up warm in front of the living room fire, there were so many things weighing on his mind that he wasn't sure what they were anymore. There was only one thing that was stark and solid, standing tall at the edge of the horizon – they had been given the final dates of their exams, and he wasn't ready. Douglas believed that he could face anything – he was resourceful – but at the moment all he had to lean on were Martin's answers, which he had memorised by ear and could recite by mouth, but wasn't sure that he could decipher when called upon to write essay length answers.

The best thing to do, Douglas had decided, was to bury his head in the sand and do something else - something more entertaining.

Douglas' quiet time was disturbed when both of his parents, obviously exhausted from work, stood before him. From that angle, he was forced to look up at them. They hadn't left him the room to stand, so he remained where he was.

"What's going on?"

"Dougie, sweetheart, we've been talking to your teachers," Alice said, in a clipped tone that suggested she wasn't answering his question. She glanced at her husband and Douglas knew that they had rehearsed this. "And while we're thrilled that your marks are improving... and that you seem to be working harder..."

"And we are thrilled," Clarke interjected. "We're proud of the effort you've put it."

Some part of Douglas' heart sank.

"However, we're also... disappointed," Alice continued.

"Not disappointed, just... confused," Clarke took over. He rubbed his hands together and came as close to fidgeting as he ever got. "According to your teachers, your focus in class hasn't changed. The quality of your homework hasn't improved either, but your practice essays and practice papers _have_. It's like you know what you want to say and you're just not saying it – like only part of your brain is in gear."

"I'm trying my hardest," Douglas said weakly.

"But not hard enough," Clarke insisted. Then he frowned and shook his head, pressing his fingers to his brow. "No, I'm sorry, Dougie... I'm sorry. I know you're trying your hardest."

"Your Head says you've got a tutor," Alice cut in. "Why weren't we told?"

"It's just Martin," Douglas replied quickly. He saw his father frown and nod to himself, no doubt remembering the name – remembering that they were being kept apart. "I-I... I wasn't keeping things from you. He's just a friend and we're revising together."

"Well, I think maybe he's been doing more harm than good," Alice said. "You've been balancing your time between so many different things-"

"Exactly! It's just poor time management," Douglas exclaimed. He surged to his feet, not caring that he had to duck out of his parents' space. Dread coursed through him as his parents exchanged another meaningful glance, and his father placed a hand on his shoulder.

"Dougie... Douglas... we know things have been stressful," he said. "That's why we've decided we can't stand back anymore. We've had to get involved."

At nine thirty in the evening, Martin received a text from Douglas. His instinct had told him to ignore it and stay in his room. Instead, he wrapped himself in his coat and waited outside by the front gate, standing in the dark just short of the amber light from the streetlamp. Douglas lived on the other side of Fitton, or so he thought, but he waited patiently until he could see the other boy trudging down the road.

The text had been brief, but it had been enough to make Martin think something was wrong.

"Martin..."

Douglas's voice was heavy. His head hung low as he came to a stop, so close but not close enough for Martin to pull him into a hug. Hands in his pockets, Douglas sniffed and pushed a hand under his nose. For a moment, Martin wasn't sure what to say. Something was obviously wrong but he couldn't work out what it was.

"U-um, Douglas... just to clarify... you didn't run away from home, did you?"

"I'm too old to run away," Douglas replied dryly. "And... no. I'll be home before they notice I'm gone. I've got nothing worth running from."

"Then what's wrong?" Martin asked. He glanced towards the windows of his house and the curtains within, blocking his family from sight. He considered inviting Douglas in, but the other boy spoke before he had a chance.

"They pulled me from the play."

"Who did?"

"My parents," Douglas explained. "They called Mrs Smith and asked that I be pulled out... 'for the sake of my studies'," Douglas sniffed again and shook his head as his expression contorted. "They think I'm spending too much time on things like theatre, and football, and _friends_ , so they made an executive decision and axed one."

" _What_? Th-they can't do that – th-they _can't_!" Martin exclaimed, seized by a rush of anger on the other boy's behalf. Reaching out to squeeze Douglas' shoulder, Martin resisted the urge to pace back and forth, cheeks burning. "I-I mean – how could they? You've worked _so hard_ to learn your lines!"

"Clearly the lines have been pushing the Biology out of my brain," Douglas muttered. "According to my parents, that is."

"Aren't they _doctors_?"

"Not brain doctors."

"W-well, let's go do something about it," Martin said. Shrugging his coat more securely around him, he took Douglas' arm and tugged him towards the street. "I'm sure if we talked to them-"

"It won't work, Martin."

"Then let's call the school – th-there's always someone in the office," Martin insisted. Then he shook his head. "N-no – it's late. Maybe if we called the Head she'll talk to them-"

" _Martin!"_

Martin almost _felt_ Douglas' patience snap as the boy pulled himself from Martin's grasp. His hands went back to his pockets and he scowled, pushing a hand through his hair. In the dark, it was impossible to tell exactly what he was thinking.

"Martin, leave it," Douglas sighed. He placed a hand on Martin's arm and brought him closer, glancing up and down the street as if he thought they might be interrupted. "I didn't come to you to threaten my parents... or Mrs Smith."

"Then wh-why _did_ you come here?"

"Because I don't want to think about it at all," Douglas said. For a moment, Martin thought that he wouldn't say a word – that he would close up as he always did. Then he looked down at the ground again, rolling his shoulders uncomfortably. "I miss being good at things, Martin. I'm _good_ at acting."

"Then don't give up – g-go and get your part back," Martin snapped. "O-or, not tonight, but tomorrow!"

"No, Martin..."

Martin stared at Douglas, but couldn't think of what to say. The past few months notwithstanding, he wasn't used to have so many people rely on him, even though he had none of the answers – never when they were all so self-reliant. In the end, he didn't have to. Douglas took a deep breath and returned Martin's offer of comfort, patting his arm and turning him towards the road.

"Do you want to go to the airfield?"

"A-at this time of night?"

"The night flights come in around now," Douglas replied brusquely. "And... there's a pub nearby. We can watch them from the roof."

The wise thing to do would have been to say no. His parents would worry if he disappeared without letting them know. Nevertheless, before he knew what was happening, Martin found himself sitting on the roof of a tiny pub, overlooking the airfield by the light of the ATC tower. Douglas clambered up beside him and passed him a bottle of beer. Martin accepted it, ignoring the prickle of guilt. He was eighteen in a few months. Nevertheless, he sipped slowly and tried not to call Douglas out for throwing it back.

"I wish I could turn back time," Douglas said softly. Martin almost didn't hear him. "Anything to stop disappointing everyone."

"Forget _everyone,"_ Martin replied, slurring ever so slightly. He leaned against Douglas until their arms pressed together. When he glanced at him, Douglas was staring out at the airfield and the jets taxiing along the runway. He did the same, nudging Douglas in the ribs. "Y-you should do what I do – look to the future."

"Is that what you did when Nathan Smiley tossed your trainers through the Art Block's top window?" Douglas replied dryly.

A quick glance told Martin that he was smirking, even if it was faint. Martin swallowed his annoyance and rolled his eyes, giving in to a rush of fondness.

"You know what I mean."

Martin watched Douglas from the corner of his eye. The other boy placed his bottle daintily on the roof beside him, taking care not to let it drop. Then he leant sideways, letting his weight rest against Martin's. He let out a weary sigh and sniffled a little. Martin thought it best not to mention it.

"Where's that plane going?" he asked, pointing to the jet at the end of the runway.

"I think that one spends a lot of time in France," Douglas replied.

"D-do you know what the airports in France look like?"

"No, but I assume you know how to land in every single one of them," Douglas drawled. With a sigh, one so weary that it didn't suit him at all, he turned his head to the side and slumped, so that his cheek was almost resting on Martin's shoulder. "Oh, _go_ _on_ then... run me through it. I'm sure it's thrilling."

Martin knew that he was teasing. He also knew that Douglas was suffering, even if he didn't want to show it. When they were in school tomorrow, he might try and fix that. For now, however, he threw back the last of his beer and preened a little as he felt the full weight of Douglas' attention.


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter Ten

As January slid into February, and the weather turned from a damp cold into a biting frost, Martin found himself thinking less about flight manuals and more about other things. For a start, there were exams looming on the horizon – larger and more immediate than ever. The more confident he grew, the more he began to worry about Douglas. Their study sessions went well – it was obvious that Douglas _understood_ all of the concepts, even some that Martin hadn't known before they had started – and the more his confidence grew, the more readily fully formed answers spilled from his mouth and his pen.

It was more than that, though. On his way to Maths class, Martin had seen Douglas from afar. The other boy had been standing outside the theatre, staring wistfully at the doors. If he hadn't been five minutes away from being late, Martin would have gone over to cheer him up. Instead, he carried thoughts of his friend into class with him.

For once, instead of reading under the desk, Martin copied down the equations that the teacher wrote on the board. All the better to cement them in his head.

Every now and then, Theresa slid her hand across the desk and doodled a little plane on the corner of Martin's page. Each time she did, Martin's mind leapt to the airfield and to Arthur's mother's plane – the time they spent on GERTI was the happiest he had ever seen Douglas. It wasn't a solution though.

Theresa's elbow nudged his. Martin glanced at her and she nodded towards his page. He saw a hastily scribbled note.

' _It's cute when you frown. But also boring. What's wrong?'_

Martin stole a glance towards the board, and then replied. It wasn't as if he could get in trouble for writing on his own notepad.

 _'_ _Nothing'_

Theresa scoffed through her nose.

 _'_ _That's a lie. I know what you look like when there's something on your mind... or someone.'_

 _'_ _No, I – that's not it,'_ Martin scribbled back. ' _Douglas is upset.'_

 _'_ _Oh...'_

 _'_ _I don't think getting him through his exams is going to be enough.'_

 _'_ _Enough to what?'_

 _'_ _Make him happy?'_ Martin wrote. Then he shook his head and crossed it out. ' _I just mean, when I'm sad, all I need to do is something I like.'_

 _'_ _You mean you want to let him play with your model aeroplanes?'_ Theresa wrote back. She smiled slightly, taking care not to turn her head from the front of class.

 _'_ _No. That's what I'd do if I was sad,'_ Martin replied. _'Douglas had the play. Now he hasn't. I don't know. I feel like I should do something.'_

Again, Theresa's elbow connected with his. She reached across him, past the scribbles in the margins.

 _'_ _I don't know how to help you,'_ she wrote.

Martin huffed and shook his head. It earned him a sharp glare from the teacher, but as they were both facing forwards there was no reprimand. He watched with baited breath as Theresa waited until the teacher's back was turned and then reached for his pad again.

 _'_ _Just do something nice.'_

 _'_ _Like what?'_

 _'_ _Like – nothing specific, just nice. I don't know. Make funny faces.'_

 _'_ _My face isn't funny,'_ Martin wrote back, so hard that he nearly blunted his pen.

 _'_ _It's a bit funny,'_ Theresa replied, smirking. If the teacher had turned around, they would have seen.

 _'_ _That's what Douglas said.'_

 _'_ _Well then he's like me, and you cheer_ me _up on a daily basis. Just be yourself.'_

At that, Martin rolled his eyes. If only it were that simple. In a few months Douglas wouldn't need a tutor anymore and there would be no _reason_ for them to seek each other out. Sure, there was an overlap of interests where the airfield was involved, but... it wasn't right to use Douglas' friendship as a way to 'network' as his father called it. For his part, Martin still wasn't sure what Douglas got out of their friendship, other than a shoulder to lean out... maybe that was enough.

With a sigh, Martin realised that Theresa was probably right. He sat back, looking to the board and realising that he had no idea when he had stopped paying attention. Martin leaned to the side, to catch a glimpse of Theresa's notes, and began hastily copying them down. He saw the teacher watching him suspiciously, and had to fight not to roll his eyes.

There was nothing to do, he supposed, but hope for the best.

Douglas had grown quite fond of the Crieff family.

Sure, Simon was pompous, but that was easily solved by slipping a little oil into his hair gel – he and Martin had hidden in the bathroom airing cupboard, sniggering behind their hands. Caitlin was irritable and caught in the worst part of puberty, but she was easily ignored. Martin's father worked throughout the day and turned up for dinner with oil on his hands and a smile on his face.

Wendy, however, was Douglas' favourite. Not only was she welcoming, but in the middle of a Saturday when the sun was shining and Martin had him revising out in the front garden, she was only too willing to provide him with an escape. Douglas had excused himself to the kitchen, telling Martin he wanted a glass of water. Twenty minutes later and Douglas was still in the kitchen, helping Wendy chop potatoes for sautéing.

Martin barged into the kitchen with a scowl on his lips, and a knowing glint in his eye. The February sun was cold, and yet harsh enough to leave the exposed skin of his collar pink and raw.

"Douglas!" he exclaimed. "We're supposed to be looking at thermodynamics."

"I'll be out in a minute," Douglas replied with a careless shrug.

"Oh, you should come inside, dear," Wendy told Martin. She rinsed her hands in the sink and reached for her apron. "Douglas has been ever so good. How about your skin some carrots? Or chop some salad for me?"

"No, I'm sorry, Mum – we don't have time," Martin insisted, throwing his hands in the air as if to avoid having a task thrust upon him. He ignored Douglas' protests as he took his wrist and pulled him bodily from the kitchen table and out towards the garden. "This is the third time you've wandered off. Come on – we're not done."

Douglas didn't put up a fight. He did, however, fight a smile as he was marched from the house and out onto the grass, where their books were laid out at their feet. As irritable as revision made him, he appreciated the fervour with which Martin had taken to helping him with his work. It was good to know that there was someone on his side who understood where he fell short. The one problem with everyone thinking you were perfect was that nobody was ever around to offer a helping hand.

"I was only helping your mother with lunch," Douglas remarked as he slumped on the blanket that had been laid out and reached for his notes. "She likes me."

"She thinks you're a good influence on me," Martin snorted, and just like that his poor mood was erased.

" _Me?_ " Douglas replied. " _Really?_ "

Martin shrugged.

"I've been too busy to get in trouble at school."

They revised in silence for a while, Martin piping up occasionally to ask questions or to tell Douglas how long it was taking for him to write things down. It took all of Douglas' power to bite his tongue and push through. It was _his_ fault he was struggling and nobody else's.

"You _know_ this," Martin sighed – it was meant to be encouragement, surely – as he propped his cheek up on his fist. He had stopped reading through the books, which was something. Now he just looked bored.

"I _know_ I know this, Martin," Douglas groaned. He dropped his head into his hands and pressed down over his eyes. "I just need... I need more time. I need more time, don't rush me. I _know_..."

Douglas focused entirely upon the words in front of him. He wasn't sure how long he concentrated for, but by the time he finished the final pages of the exam Martin had found online, he was exhausted. It was a bone-deep kind of weariness that rattled about inside his skull. He ran his hands through his hair and slumped, squeezing his eyes shut. This was so much easier with Arthur –sure, he didn't get very far, but at least there wasn't the persistent pressure to do well. Arthur could be amazed by anything.

It was only when the pages of his books fluttered in the wind that Douglas realised that Martin hadn't said a word for a while. He looked up and was met with the sight of Martin's blue eyes fixed on his face – narrowed and unwavering.

"What?"

Martin didn't answer at first. He stammered, blinking as if to clear his head. His eyes remained fixed on Douglas' face. Cheeks flushing faintly, he stammered again and then leaned in close, lowering his voice so that only the two of them could hear.

"Douglas, h-have you... h-have you ever thought that maybe... m-maybe..."

" _What,_ Martin?"

"H-have you ever thought... a-and I'm not trying to hurt you..." Martin swallowed hard and fidgeted. Then he took a deep breath and held Douglas' gaze. There was something curious and bright in his tone, like someone who had uncovered buried treasure. "H-have you ever thought that you... y-you might be dyslexic?"

Douglas' mouth opened – and no clever retort came out. Instead of shame he felt only a stone drop in his stomach, carrying with it the weight of resignation. His gaze dropped to his notes and he fought the urge to squirm. He twiddled his pen between his fingers. It would have been easy to lie and yet, with Martin's gaze burning on his skin he couldn't muster the energy. A part of him longed for the bond of trust that they had.

"There's... um... there's never been any diagnosis," Douglas admitted. He saw something flit across Martin's face, and he ignored it. "Actually, there have never been any doctors to _make_ a diagnosis."

"Th-then what-"

"I thought – a while ago, I thought that maybe... I'm not stupid, Martin-"

"I know you're not."

"Good, because I'm not. I know I'm not, which is why I started to think that there was something _wrong_... there's nothing _wrong_ , and my parents said so," Douglas explained. He shrugged, brushing the matter off as best he could. "My dad used to sit up with me and help me with my homework... it wasn't so hard before. Now, it's mostly private study and I... well, if I wasn't having trouble, I wouldn't need _you_ , would I?"

Martin's expression contorted, and he sat back. The closeness evaporated. Guilt washed through Douglas so quickly that he was dizzied.

"That's not what I meant, Martin."

"Sure, fine – of course it's not," Martin replied curtly. "You're upset because I-"

"Because you're probably right," Douglas interrupted. He caught Martin's eyes for a second – no more than that. Then he sniffled and stared at the grass. "And... and I don't want to be diagnosed. I don't _want_ help. I just want to sort myself out... I want to get on with things and learn how to cope. All I need is time, but I need _more_ time – I need to be able to pull things out of my head quickly – I need to get them down on paper."

Martin shook his head, something indecipherable in his expression.

"B-but-"

"But nothing, Martin," Douglas said. "I need to pass my exams, but the real world isn't made of exams. I can deal with the real world – I'm _good_ in the real world. Don't make this more than it is."

"You're allowed help," Martin insisted.

"But I don't want it."

Slowly, reluctantly, Martin nodded. He picked at the grass beneath him and nodded again, taking slow, deep breaths.

"Fine, a-alright. I-if that's what you want," he said. Martin kept nodding and Douglas felt the tension ease from his own shoulders. Then Martin's eyes widened and his head snapped up. He was on his feet in seconds, clumsily crackling with energy. "W-wait here! Wait here – I'll be back in a minute."

With that, Martin hurried into the house, leaving Douglas alone in the front garden.

Before Douglas had time to pack his things away and pretend that nothing was wrong, Martin reappeared. In his hands was a small plastic box. Douglas held his breath as Martin dropped down beside him and opened the box, letting small slips of rectangular cards fall out.

"Martin, what is this?"

Martin didn't answer at first. Instead he pulled a thick pen from his pocket and stacked the cards on his knee. He met Douglas' gaze and faltered, blushing slightly and glancing towards the ground before he regained his confidence.

"Look, Douglas... I-I'm not going to tell you what to do, b-but..." Martin paused and drew his lip through his teeth, taking another deep breath. "B-but, I think maybe the reason you're so stressed is because you're trying t-to stuff too much into your head at once. I-if it's harder for you to deal with the words or... I-I don't really know what dyslexia's like, o-or whether you've even got it, b-but... b-but I have some idea that might help make things easier."

"Ideas?" Douglas repeated. A sliver of trepidation cut through him as he watched Martin fidget and shuffle the cards.

"Like flashcards – w-with the name of a theory or whatever on the front –and bullet points on the back," Martin explained. "O-or posters for your walls. S-so whenever you go through your room, you see the facts a-and you memorise the look of the words as well as the meaning. Th-they're just normal revision techniques, b-but most people don't do them. I-I could help you if you want."

Douglas wasn't sure what to say. A faint glow in his chest turned into a lump in his throat and all that he could do was nod and duck his head so that Martin couldn't see his expression. Pride had gone out the window, but he couldn't embarrass himself completely.

Martin must have read something in his silence as he rambled on, charmingly cheery as his excitement grew. He said something about colour coding but Douglas didn't hear him. He didn't even react until Martin held out a stack of blank cards. Instead of taking them, Douglas took Martin's hand and squeezed, wishing he could find a better way to express just how much he _adored_ him in that moment – something more than the flexing of Martin's fingers around his.

It was a surprise to feel that Martin's hands were completely steady – for all of his fidgeting, there wasn't a tremor to be found.

"Thank you, Martin."

Martin gave his hand a final squeeze and then awkwardly cleared his throat. He let go of Douglas' hand and rifled through his pens and flash cards.

"It's nothing," he replied. "A-and... I won't tell anyone."

"I didn't think you would," Douglas murmured.

The glance that he earned was soft and he felt his heart lift as Martin shrugged lopsidedly. For once, Douglas didn't put up a fight as Martin urged him back into the rhythm of revision, even if it did leave him feeling childish. It didn't leave him with less of a headache, but he did feel some of the weight ease from his shoulders.

The moment Martin stepped out of his English class, he was almost knocked off his feet. It took a moment for him to realise that the wall he had walked into was in fact Douglas, and that the other boy had thrown his arms around him. His classmates, with the exception of Arthur, filtered into the hall around them. With Douglas' arms around him and a pleasant warmth flooding his chest, Martin could only wrap his arms around the boy and awkwardly pat his back through his confusion.

When Douglas stepped back, Martin got a clear view of a grin that softened his whole face –that made his light up handsomely.

"I got a B!" Douglas exclaimed the moment the rest of the class had disappeared. "On my Physics practice – it's a low B, I'll admit, but nobody cares about the grade margins."

"I do," Martin muttered.

Douglas waved a dismissive hand through the air and accepted Arthur's congratulatory hug.

"That's brilliant, Douglas," Arthur said as he patted his shoulder and stepped back, far more quickly than Douglas had stepped back from Martin. "We should celebrate."

"That's the plan," Douglas agreed. Before Martin knew what was happening, he had been swept up, with Douglas' arm around his shoulder, and the three of them were heading up the hall. "Although, if we should be treating anyone, it should be Martin. What do you say to an afternoon at the airfield, Martin? And dinner on me?"

It was impossible to insist that Douglas spend his time revising when his good mood was indomitably bright. The strain that had weighed on him for the past few months was replaced by a charm and cheerfulness that buoyed all three of them. For once, Martin could see how so many people believed that Douglas was faultless. As they walked through Fitton on their way to the airfield, Martin stayed silent as Douglas and Arthur rallied the phonetic alphabet – Douglas, to Martin's surprise knew it all.

"Isn't this one of those learning techniques you were talking about, Martin?"

At Douglas' question, Martin blinked out of his stupor.

"Wh-what? Oh, yes – I-I'm sure this sort of thing works," he replied, glancing guardedly towards Arthur.

"I think I'd like this more than the flashcards," Douglas remarked dryly. "What do you think, Arthur?"

"Not with the alphabet though?" Arthur asked.

"No, Arthur, not with the alphabet," Douglas sighed. He glanced down at Martin, and something shifted in his expression. "Don't worry, Martin. Arthur knows everything – about me, that is. It would be a stretch to say he knows _everything_."

"Oh, well... that's good then," Martin replied, and the squirming in his stomach eased.

There was more of a buzz around the Knapp-Shappey aircraft than usual when they arrived. Engineers were crawling around the plane, checking this and analysing that, jotting things down in notepads. Martin watched from afar at first as Arthur went in search of his mother, only to return and inform them than GERTI was being checked over before it could be properly appraised. Herc Shipwright was also there, and a little more snooping on Douglas' behalf proved that he had wrangled the engineers for Carolyn.

"Now, boys, I know I usually let you have the run of the place," Carolyn informed them, tone laced with regret that Martin almost believed. "However, I don't think _anyone's_ going to take my company seriously if they know I've been using three teenagers as staff."

"So you want us out the way?" Arthur asked.

"Ye-es... not quite a Code Red, but, well..." Carolyn pressed her hands together and glanced towards the plane. There was a disapproving suspicion in her gaze, and Martin suspected that she wasn't pleased to be at the mercy of a group of strangers. "Do me a favour and keep out of trouble, alright? That means all of you."

She pointed a stern finger and a withering glare that travelled from Arthur to Martin, and then over Martin's shoulder.

"So there's no point us really being here, is there?" Martin sighed, biting back his disappointment.

Carolyn nodded solemnly, lips pressed into a thin line as if she didn't believe him. Martin had only said it because he expected Douglas to say something to the contrary. There was a moment of silence, and then nothing.

Martin glanced over his shoulder, and saw that Douglas was a short distance away, talking with Herc. He caught Arthur's eye and felt another wash of disappointment. Douglas would have found a way to keep them there... then again, Douglas wasn't perfect either. Without really knowing what he was doing, Martin sucked up his confidence and _pretended_ – just as Douglas would have done.

"A-actually, Carolyn – M-Mrs Knapp-Shappey," he said, clearing his throat. Carolyn raised an eyebrow but she listened, which was more than some people would have done. "C-couldn't we stay? I-I mean, if we said we were interns – that's what proper companies have, isn't it? W-we could say that we're interning."

"And what good would that do me if you're getting in the way?" Carolyn replied.

"We wouldn't get in the way," Martin assured her. "W-we'd just – we'd _oversee_. I mean, do you really want a bunch of strangers fiddling about with your plane?"

"Dad's engineers looked in all the hidey holes too," Arthur interjected. "And that was before we'd even hidden things in them."

"S-see."

Carolyn looked between them, almost appraisingly. Then she shrugged and her shoulders sagged as she threw her hands into the air.

"Oh, do whatever you like," she said. "But be warned. If I catch you _or_ the engineers digging through my drinks cupboard, I won't be happy."

"I was more thinking we'd make sure they didn't steal our Monopoly," Arthur said. "The games cupboard isn't locked."

"We'll behave," Martin promised, stepping in front of Arthur. "You won't even know we're here."

"I better not."

Carolyn left them with Martin feeling like he had won the lottery. There wasn't a lot they could do on the plane with so many people around, but at least he wouldn't have to go home for a while – he could have a few stolen hours with Douglas, and Arthur to an extent. With Douglas on his mind, Martin clapped Arthur's shoulder and they ambled to where they friend was still deep in conversation with Herc.

"As tempting as that is, Douglas, my answer is still no," Herc said, shaking his head. He passed his pilot's hat between his hands and leaned casually against the small truck that the engineers had brought with them.

"Oh, why not?" Douglas insisted, just short of whining. He shot Martin a quick glance as he arrived, but didn't divert his attention from the man before him. "I'll tell you what – when I sell it, I'll cut you in for eight percent."

"I don't think so."

"Come _on_."

"No, Douglas – and I won't say yes just to impress your friends either," Herc replied, smiling in greeting. Arthur gave a little wave, but that was all. "It may not be illegal, but I don't feel comfortable transporting large amounts of _anything_ across borders and bringing you back the proceeds."

"But I promised my pen-pal," Douglas argued.

"Since when do you have a pen-pal?" Martin asked, scrunching his nose as he tried to imagine Douglas sitting in his room writing to a teenager in another country. Then he imagined Douglas doing that, but scheming to get something out of it – he could picture it perfectly.

"I thought we stopped doing pen-pals in Year Four," Arthur chimed in.

"Most people did," Douglas confirmed. "However, I saw a business opportunity. I have pen-pals on every continent."

"What kind of business opportunity?" Martin asked.

"The kind that benefits from me flying to Japan next week," Herc answered, ignoring Douglas' chagrin. "I don't know how you got hold of my schedule, Douglas, and frankly I don't care. I'm not lugging ten kilos of cheese to Tokyo in my flight bag."

"Does your pen-pal like cheese?" Arthur asked.

"Whether he likes it or not is irrelevant," Douglas replied. "What matters is that if I send him a package of fine English cheddars, he'll send _me_ a package of Kit Kats, all of varying flavours unfound in the UK."

Exasperation brought with it a rush of fascination, and fondness. Ignoring the affection swelling in his chest, Martin moved to Douglas' side and hooked an arm around his – effectively pulling him away from the truck. Douglas resisted as little as was possible, pouting but coming along without a fuss.

"Come on, Douglas," he said, catching Herc's eye and enjoying the camaraderie of finding Douglas exhausting. "Let's leave the nice _professional_ pilot alone, shall we?"

"This better not be how you treat me when _you're_ a pilot," Douglas muttered, but he did as he was asked.

He caught hold of Arthur and together they headed towards GERTI, Douglas' arm still hooked through Martin's. He gave Martin a playful push, and Martin gave in and sprinted up the steps. He tripped – twice in fact – but it was worth it to hear Douglas laugh.

Fitton wasn't well-stocked in terms of restaurants, but the chip shop had served Douglas well for most of his life. Offering to let Arthur stay at his, after walking Martin back home on the way, Douglas had convinced them to travel away from the airfield for supper. It was nice to feel like a proper teenager for once – sitting atop a park table with a bag of chips between them – no airfield job, no exams on his mind, just three youths hanging around in the dark, enjoying themselves with some cheap and greasy food.

"How about without the last letter," Arthur suggested, mouth bulging as he grinned.

Douglas couldn't help but smile as he watched Martin grimace and roll his eyes, aghast at what his 'learning game' had been turned into. Word games were more fun – they were witty and kept Douglas on his toes. He wanted to reach out and prod Martin's arm – catch his attention and smile with him.

"Alright then," Douglas said. "Romeo and Julie."

Arthur burst out laughing, and Douglas couldn't help but follow. His chest stopped heaving long enough for him to see that Martin wasn't laughing. He was smiling, in that odd, helpless way he did when he didn't understand but was glad to be included.

Douglas raised an eyebrow and Martin scratched his head.

"Um... wh-why is that funny? What's so funny about Julie?"

"It's not that Julie's funny," Arthur explained, poorly. "It's that it's funny, you see, imagining Julie falling in love with Romeo."

"A-and who's Julie?"

"Julie was the caretaker's wife when we were in Year One," Douglas explained, and he felt a pang of something in his chest when he saw Martin's expression fall. "Everyone knew her... she used to come on all the school trips, and watch us in the playground, and help out with the assemblies... It doesn't matter really."

"N-no, it doesn't," Martin agreed, but some of his cheer had disappeared. "I-I wasn't around then. I-I guess I missed out on a lot."

"Yeah, but you're here now, Martin," Arthur said, and he reached out to clap Martin on the back. Douglas folded his hands in his lap to stop from doing the same – from moving to the other side of the table to put his arm around the boy that had done so much for him. "That's what matters."

"Exactly," Douglas said. He raised a chip in a facsimile of a toast. "You're one of us now."

"Yeah."

Arthur also raised a chip.

Reluctantly, biting his lip and sighing as if he didn't know what he was doing with such childish people, Martin raised a chip. His cheeks were red and he pulled his knees up to his chest to reach the middle of the table, where their hands all met, and Douglas could see clearly the upward tilt of his lips.

Catching Martin's eye, Douglas bumped their hands together. Martin rolled his eyes and took a bite out of his chip. A deal had been sealed.


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter Eleven

Sunday was a day off. Everyone seemed to know that except Martin's dad. Martin sat in the garage, atop one of the steel cabinets that held his father's tools, and let his legs swing as he slumped against the wall and let out a sigh. Nearby, Raymond tinkered inside the bonnet of his van – repairing things that weren't yet broken and coming back with little oil stains along his wrists.

The noise of metal clinking and echoing was soothing in its familiarity, and although Martin had no desire to _help_ , he also had no intention of leaving.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. Martin pulled it half-way out and checked the screen, tipping his head ever so slightly. There was nothing to be ashamed of, but Martin was afraid that if his dad looked up, he might see a faint flush in his tickling cheeks. Lately, any chance to spend time with Douglas – even in the form of words sent over miles – brought forth a flutter of excitement.

It was normal to be _pleased_ to see one's friends. Martin was well aware that _this_ was more than the normal type of pleased... Martin knew exactly what it was. He glanced again at the text and fought a smile.

 _Dear lord, end my suffering._

Martin quickly typed a response.

 _If you don't like your brother, don't spend time with him._

Douglas was spending the weekend with his older brother, or so he had said over the phone on Friday evening. They had planned to head out into Fitton, maybe pick up Arthur along the way, and pretend that the future wasn't looming. Those plans had been dashed, and if he wasn't mistaken, Martin thought Douglas sounded more disappointed than him.

Martin's phone dinged a minute later.

 _Not all brothers are as easily dismissed as Simon, Martin. In the Richardson family, we're nice to each other._

 _I'm nice_ – Martin texted back.

All he got in return was a grinning emoticon, and then another wearing sunglasses. Martin scoffed and rolled his eyes, and tucked his phone into his pocket. He looked up to find his dad watching him, eyebrow raised, lips curled into a knowing smirk.

"What?" Martin exclaimed, slumping further against the wall. He folded his arms and tucked his thin jumper more tightly around himself.

"Talking to that Theresa girl?" Raymond asked. To his credit, he went back to work, reaching into the engine and checking the oil levels with the dipstick.

"No."

"Another girl?"

"No..."

Martin swallowed the lump in his throat and looked down at his hands. He could still see his dad from the corner of his eye. There was a moment of silence, filled only with the clink of metal. He waited for the punch-line, and was surprised when that wasn't what came.

"Is it a lad?" Raymond asked. He didn't look at Martin, but his tone was open and light. He waited a moment, and when he didn't get an answer, he sighed and tossed Martin an oily rag. "Come on, son. I know what you look like when you're mooning over someone. Granted, it's been a few years-"

" _Dad_!"

"I'm just saying..."

"Alright, I..." Martin glanced at his dad, and then lowered his gaze. He considered lying, but the clinking of metal lulled him into a state of security. His fingers connected with his phone as he buried them in his pockets and he hastily snatched them away – the moment he did, his mind leapt to the dozens of texts still stored on its memory. "Dad... wh-what... h-have you ever... _really_ liked someone..."

"Well, I'm married," Raymond replied with another grin.

Martin's cheeks burned. Exasperation steadied him though.

"Y-you _know_ what I mean," he said, and pushed a hand through his hair. "I-I mean, someone that maybe – m-maybe I shouldn't like them."

"Because they're a boy?" Raymond interrupted. "Because there's no should or shouldn't where that's concerned, son."

"Y-yeah, I know – can I finish?" Martin huffed. His dad nodded and waved his spanner through the air, and Martin took a deep breath. "I-it's just that he's a friend – a-and I'm not sure that I _do_ like him – I mean, I think I do, b-but I'm not sure. I-it might just be friendly... I-I don't know if he feels the same – i-if I even feel anything b-but... We're close, you know."

"That's good."

"W-we're close, a-and he trusts me. I _know_ he trusts me, you know? H-he tells me things," Martin continued. "A-and he likes me. I-I mean, he likes the planes and stuff – he doesn't make fun of me. W-well, he _does_ , b-but he also seems interested."

Raymond stood a little straighter and folded his arms over the edge of the bonnet. He fixed Martin with a shrewd glare.

"It's not that Douglas lad, is it?"

"Wh-why?" Martin replied before he could stop himself. "I-I thought you liked him."

"I do, Martin, I do," Raymond said. He raised his hands in surrender and bit back a grin, reaching again into the van's engine. "He's a nice boy – very polite. Too polite for a teenager, I'll give you that, but I reckon maybe that's just when me and your mother are around." He looked up again and sighed. Then he dropped his spanner and crossed the garage, wiping his hands on a rag. "Don't look so worried, son."

"W-well what am I supposed to do?" Martin exclaimed. He ignored his dad's hand on his shoulder and slid to his feet, pacing to the van and back. "Wh-what if... what if I... what if _he_..."

"I can't tell you what to do, son."

"Wh-why not?"

"Because I'm not the one who wants to date this boy."

"I-I don't want to _date_ him!" Martin squawked. His cheeks were burning and he couldn't stop moving in case his dad caught up with him and he had to look at his grin. It was embarrassing –he should never have started the conversation. "I-I just want... I-I want to keep having fun with him, b-but exams are coming up, a-and the end of the year, a-and... and I want things the way they are b-but with more... more..."

"Let's leave it at that, hey?" Raymond suggested.

As Martin sagged with relief, he nodded and chuckled. He returned to the van, leaving Martin to pace and wonder just what he had achieved. In spite of himself, Martin felt a heavy weight lift from his shoulders, and a new kind of excitement bubbling in his chest.

On Wednesday morning, Douglas slipped all the books he had taken from the library into his bag. He had taken everything he possibly could from them – even the things that only Martin had seen use in. He wouldn't admit that he was looking forward to school, but... he did have far more energy than he had in recent months, and his mind was already on the Physics class that he shared with Martin and Theresa.

"Dougie!"

Douglas followed the sound of his father's voice into the dining room, bag slung over his shoulder. He was met with the sight of Clarke filling his briefcase, and Alice making herself presentable in the mirror at the back of the china cabinet. His father looked up when he entered the room and flashed him a smile.

"There you are," he said. "Your mother and I won't be in tonight – not until late anyway."

"Why not?"

"Because, sweetheart, we've been working overtime, and rushing in early, and we've earned ourselves a night to the two of us," Alice replied. She never stopped moving, even for a moment, and the late nights were showing on her face.

"Not that we're getting a night to the two of us," Clarke continued. "We're getting off early and then going out to dinner with your aunt and her partner. It's a late one, so we won't be here when you get back from school."

"Oh... alright," Douglas was about to ask more, then a flicker of something made him stop. The house would be empty for once. "Alright then," he said, and plastered on a smile. "I hope you have fun."

"Believe me, dear, we won't," Alice muttered. "Not that you're to tell my sister that."

With that, she flustered across the room and tapped Douglas' nose, shaking her head when he scrunched up his face and stumbled back. Douglas watched her leave and was then guided out of the way of his father, who patted his shoulder on his way.

"Now, Dougie , you can either stop at Mrs Knapp-Shappey's house, or you can dig around in the freezer," he said. "There's plenty in there." Clarke paused long enough to smirk and offer Douglas a cheesy waggle of his finger. "And no parties, young man."

Douglas snorted, but didn't respond. His parents took that to mean that he was agreeing, and went about their morning business without bothering him.

Douglas meanwhile ambled around the living room, thinking over what they had said. He would have the house to himself. Sure, he _could_ throw a party. The lads would be pleased, and they would bring their own drinks – they may have been rowdy on the pitch, but they weren't stupid enough to damage the house. Then again... it was only one evening, and lately... Douglas was in the mood for a quiet night in. If he threw a party, Martin wouldn't come, which would be a shame – they were close, and Douglas couldn't quite stomach the idea of celebrating without him.

So, no parties. But... Douglas reached for his phone, and then pulled back, leaving it in his pocket. There was no reason he couldn't take advantage of his parents' absence in some _other_ way.

Martin was always inviting Douglas into his home – it was a safe place and it had made him vulnerable before they had ever been friends. Douglas hadn't done the same because... well... he hadn't wanted to admit that he was being tutored. Then he had kept them apart because he was sure that his parents would see the tumult of warm and pleasant emotions that Martin stirred up under his skin. There were good friends, best friends... and then there was Martin.

And for one evening, Douglas could invite him into _his_ safe space and there would be nobody looking on. It was only fair, after all.

"I can never tell who's winning," Arthur remarked. He looked over to Martin, and then to Theresa, knowing that she was better suited for answering his concerns, and scratched his head. "It's not so bad when the teams are in colours, but when they're all in their own clothes... it's impossible."

"It's easier if you watch the ones that are hugging each other," Theresa replied. Then she shrugged and twirled her hair around her little finger. "Then again, it might be sad hugging –you know. To commiserate their loss."

Martin followed their line of their gaze back towards the school's shoddy excuse for a football pitch. He had been watching it anyway, from the patch of grass that the three of them were sitting on, but he hadn't really been paying attention to who was winning. The sun was out for the first time in weeks and the ground was dry enough to play without falling over.

So, Arthur and Theresa watched the game while Martin watched Douglas jog from one end of the pitch to the other, somehow managing to score a goal or two even though Martin wasn't sure that he had moved much at all. It was a lazy sort of efficiency that looked quite good on him. Douglas had forgone his usual thin jumper – sort of cool and sort of granddad-ish – and wasn't quite sweating through his t-shirt. Martin couldn't keep his eyes from him. The other boy was enjoying himself, cheering on his teammates... and _himself_... and grinning in the charmingly handsome way that he did when he was unabashedly smug.

Normally he wouldn't have stared so hard, but since he had spoken to his dad, Martin didn't fight the urge nearly as hard. It helped that every now and then Douglas would pause with his hands on his knees to catch his breath, turn towards their little gathering, and wave. He didn't turn away until Martin waved back.

It was quite nice actually. Martin wasn't sure whether he liked Douglas or the _attention_ more, but either way... it left him warm and fuzzy inside, and not caring so much that his bag was unopened and his books unattended.

Eventually the match ended and Douglas excused himself. He jogged over to meet them as the three of them rose from the grass.

"There's nothing like a run-about in the midday sun," Douglas announced once he was within earshot. He stretched his arms over his head, flexing his chest and groaning as his muscles pulled tight. "You should join us sometime."

Theresa scoffed and shook her head.

"I would flatten the lot of you," she drawled.

"In a good way though," Arthur interjected. "Not like I did that one time."

"Now, that _was_ an interesting game," Douglas agreed. He retrieved the bag that he had left with them, which was bulging with more books than Martin had ever seen him carry, and hefted it over his shoulder. "I need to visit the library. You coming, Martin?"

It took a second for Martin to realise that the last bit had been directed at him. He glanced towards Arthur and Theresa, even as he opened his mouth to answer.

"S-sure."

"Excellent," Douglas replied warmly. He clapped Arthur's shoulder and started walking, addressing the both of them as he led Martin away. "We'll see you after class, yes?"

"Of course."

They didn't speak until they were in the library – or, they _did_ , but Martin wasn't paying much attention to what he was saying. He was distracted, monitoring his own movements in case Douglas suspected... _something_. It wasn't until he watched Douglas shove the tenth book back onto its shelf, one leg balanced on the nearest desk, that he started listening again. He hurried to offer a hand – left it hovering in the air to ensure that Douglas didn't fall as he reached for the highest shelf.

"Wh-what was that?" he asked. "Sorry – was in a world of my own."

"I asked if you wanted to move the study session to my house this afternoon," Douglas reiterated. He didn't spare Martin a second glance, and there wasn't a trace of anything but genuine interest in his tone. "Your mother's cooked so much for me I'd have to buy a restaurant to pay her back – and it'll be quiet. No pesky siblings poking their heads in at my place. If you'd like."

"O-oh, well, I-I-I'd love to – I mean," Martin stammered until his mind clicked back into gear. Narrowing his eyes, he shifted so that he could look Douglas in the face and drop into a suspicious mutter. "I-I thought you didn't want me at your house."

"I never said that," Douglas retorted, just a tad too quickly. He hopped down from the desk with a nonchalant shrug. "I merely _implied_ that my parents wouldn't like the inconvenience. Alas, my _parents_ won't be there tonight, so we'll have the house to ourselves. Nice and quiet for undisturbed revision."

Martin's voice caught in his throat as his head snagged on the prospect of them being alone in an empty house. They had been alone before – all the time in fact – and yet something in the way Douglas said it, and the past few months, had his heart skipping.

Besides... he was curious. Douglas had picked his bedroom apart within ten minutes of first stepping foot there. What could he possibly be hiding within his own? Or – Martin shook himself.

"O-of course, if that's where you want to go, th-then... sure," he said. Douglas was looking at him oddly, head tilted to the side, but he ignored him and focused instead on not embarrassing himself. "It's up to you."

Douglas hadn't wanted to admit that he was nervous, but once Martin was through the front door, anxiety crept underneath his skin... and not for the reasons he would have expected. He wasn't sure why, but the moment the door was shut Douglas hurried into the house and hastily swept the living room and hall for any mess left behind – post not opened, dust on the mantle, shoes on the stairs. A part of him didn't want Martin to see how _stuffy_ his house was compared to his, in case he judged too quickly – the rest didn't want him to see an untidy home as his parents' subliminal training had him cleaning a path through the building.

"W-wow..." Martin's voice drew Douglas out of his nervous frenzy, somewhere between the kitchen and the sitting room. He was turning on his heels, taking in the neat ornaments on the mantles and the plush carpets. "This is... great."

"Well, it's home," Douglas acknowledged.

"R-really, Douglas. Why didn't you want me here?" Martin asked. He poked the edge of a mirror on the wall, only to snatch his hand back and smile sheepishly. "I-I mean, I don't think any less of you – i-if that's what was worrying you."

"That's not..." Douglas trailed off as he realised that he _had_ been worried. "What can I say? You've got me riddled out."

Martin's family weren't poor, but they weren't rich either, and with five of them all packed into one house – and three teenagers close in age – there _was_ a part of him that hadn't wanted to show off. He _saw_ the way Martin's eyes lingered on his phone and expensive coats. It seemed that Martin could _see_ through him – into parts that he hadn't been fully aware of.

The story was much the same when they moved to Douglas' bedroom – to drop off their bags. While Douglas stacked up the books they would need and the flashcards that Martin had brought with him, he watched Martin move bashfully around the room. Paradoxically, Martin was both more confident and far more shy now that they were alone. Maybe it was the muffled hush that the Richardson house embodied – Douglas sort of hoped that it was the same nervousness that squirmed in his own stomach.

"I-I see you followed my advice," Martin remarked as he pointed to the posters that Douglas had tacked to his walls. There was a hint of pride in his tone as he took in the bullet points written in various colours – to better stick in his head. "Is it working?"

"Seems to be," Douglas replied. He watched Martin move to the shelves stuffed with various things. "Feel free to look," he said. "I've been through your things enough times."

Martin snorted and Douglas couldn't fight a smile as he dropped his gaze.

For a while, Martin rifled through Douglas' old records and his new CDs – his classical books and anything else he could get his hands on. Unlike Martin's room – filled with aircraft – there was no rhyme or reason despite the relative tidiness of the space. Then only sign of mess was the clothing that Douglas had strewn over every horizontal surface.

"You got through all of these?" Martin asked, motioning to the books.

"More or less," Douglas shrugged, biting back a prickle of defensiveness. "It takes me a while, but... I get through them."

"Th-that's not what I meant," Martin insisted. He hastily crossed the room and took half of the books from Douglas' arms, helping him carry them into the sitting room. "I-I just meant that it's impressive. I-I couldn't get through all of those, b-but you did – i-it's impressive for someone who finds it difficult."

"Let no one say I'm not impressive," Douglas drawled.

They revised for a while, sitting either side of the same corner of the dining table – close enough that when Douglas reached for a different pen, his knuckles brushed Martin's, and Martin could lean across the space between them to read his notes upside-down. Martin didn't talk as much as he used to – as if he trusted Douglas to actually work.

After dinner they moved back to Douglas' room. He cooked and took some pleasure from further dazzling Martin. While he switched on the radio, Martin set himself up atop the duvet with his notebook and a pen so that he could write up a series of test questions – like a pop quiz, but more pedantic.

"You know, Douglas, I never really saw it before, but... I-I can sort of see why people think you're perfect," Martin remarked as he stretched. There was a lazy, bashful smile on his face and a faint glow in his cheek, and he looked rather pleased with himself. "Y-you've really got all bases covered, haven't you?"

"Is there something you're trying to tell me, Martin?" Douglas drawled, but he grinned.

He dropped down beside Martin and tossed his own pad of paper aside. That earned him a stern glare that lasted a fraction of a second.

"D-don't get me wrong," Martin said, raising his hands in surrender. "I-I still think you're smug, a-and big-headed-"

"Coming from _you._ "

"Y-you _know_ what I mean," Martin retorted. He gave the pad a wave. "I know _this_ i-is giving you trouble, b-but everything else – you're over-confident. I-it's going to get you in trouble one day, th-this thinking that you're right – th-that having a plan makes you right. I-I've seen you at the airfield. Y-you can get careless."

"Says _you_ ," Douglas scoffed. He couldn't help but grin as Martin did the same. "What were you called to the Head's office for again? Was it over-confidence and carelessness, perhaps?"

"A-alright, fine..."

"And then there's you, making _plans_ – spending all day in the library, learning everything you can to put yourself on the correct career path," Douglas continued. His smile betrayed the affection, and made sure that Martin didn't frown. "It looks to me that _you're_ just as bad, soon to be Captain Crieff."

They were close enough that he could reach out and nudge Martin's arm as he slouched sideways to rest on his arms. Martin mirrored his posture, bringing them closer as he ducked his head to hide a flush of red to his cheeks.

"I-I might _not_ make it to Captain," he murmured.

"You don't believe that," Douglas said, shaking his head. "You wouldn't be so invested if you didn't think you could do it." He glanced down at the pad that was still in Martin's hand, and then up to the boy's face. "For the record, I think you can. There's no way you couldn't with your brain filled up with all those plane facts – and Carolyn's offer of work."

"Hmmm, yes... I guess," Martin sighed. Then he inhaled sharply and ran a hand through his hair. "E-except, you don't exactly have a lot of medical text-book on your shelves."

"Yes, well, that's less of a dream and more of a certainty," Douglas said. His mood dipped ever so slightly as he picked at his sleeve. "You love aviation. _I_ love theatre, and music, and art, and literature, and sports-"

"Th-then why are you becoming a doctor?"

"Because it's a _job_ , not a _dream_ ," Douglas said. "And my brother's gone off and... let's just say my parents couldn't take me dropping everything to... I don't know – travel the world. Unless of course it was a Gap year. Just a break before I get back on track."

"Are you doing that then?" Martin asked. Suddenly his expression was clear and his eyes were sharp, fixed on Douglas' face. A prickle of discomfort flashed across his face and he fidgeted. "Going travelling for a year? I-I know you've been talking about it, w-with Theresa."

"I might," Douglas replied softly. He watched Martin nod slowly and didn't take his eyes from his expression. "There's no need to look so glum," he murmured. "You won't even be here. You'll be in Oxford – you'll be too busy at the Aviation College to miss me."

"Oxford University has courses for doctors, d-doesn't it?" Martin asked instead of answering.

Something panged in Douglas' chest. Without thinking, he reached out and placed his hand on Martin's arm, squeezing lightly. He didn't remove it as Martin's eyes darted down to it and then back to Douglas' face.

"Exactly," Douglas assured him. " _If_ I go travelling, you'll see me come second year."

Martin nodded, but he didn't say a word. His hand covered Douglas' and Douglas was acutely aware of how close they were. He could feel Martin's staggered breaths against his cheek. Unsure of what to say, Douglas stayed where he was, and didn't look away when Martin's eyes met his.

Then his breath caught in his throat at Martin's lips pressed hard against his and his cheeks were burning hot underneath Martin's palms. Almost holding his breath, Douglas kissed back, giving in to the ache in his chest that pulled his closer – he had had kisses enough to know what he was doing, but that didn't stop his head from spinning at the slight dampness where his lips moved over Martin's.

Martin pulled back before Douglas thought to. He didn't go far. His eyes raced over Douglas' face and he stammered before Douglas had time to do more than sit up straight and catch his breath.

"I-I know that isn't what you invited me over," Martin squawked.

Douglas started to laugh – breathless from the panicked look on Martin's face.

"Still, it's as good a reason as any," he chuckled.

Just like that, they were kissing again. Martin lurched forwards and pushed a hand through Douglas' hair, kissed him with a clumsy determination that sent heat coiling through Douglas' chest. Douglas pulled Martin closer with an arm around his middle and a hand on his cheek, fingers trailing past his ear. The sounds of their lips meeting were drowned out by the small mumbles that escaped Martin's throat as they embraced – arms colliding awkwardly, noses bumping, air burning in Douglas' lungs as he trailed his lips down from Martin's mouth to his chin.

Douglas leaned forwards and Martin's legs went out from under him. In the moments that Douglas was distracted – pushing their books from the bed – Martin got an arm around his shoulder and pulled them sideways. It was harder to move with one arm pinned between Martin and the mattress, but that didn't matter when Martin's lips met his neck.

Then Douglas heard the thud and scrape of the front door opening, directly beneath his bedroom.

Panic shot through him as he sat upright, head clunking against Martin's. Martin tried to follow, but stumbled and fell back onto the bed. Douglas was on his feet in seconds, reaching for his books and straightening the duvet where it had been pulled out of place. He ignored Martin's red-faced confusion as he heard his parents' voices through the floor.

"Wh-what's going on?" Martin stammered. "D-did I do something wrong?"

Douglas froze and stared at the other boy. There was no pretending that what had just happened hadn't happened. Martin's clothes were creased and his hair was ruffled and he looked pleasantly dazed even through the furrowed brow and worrying frown. As Martin staggered to his feet, Douglas swallowed the lump in his throat and shook his head.

"No... no, you didn't. Just – can you just – can you straighten yourself up, please. Make yourself presentable."

"B-but I-"

"My parents don't _know_ , Martin. They don't _know..._ you know," Douglas insisted. He saw Martin's eyes cloud with understanding. Relief washed through him when Martin nodded and leaned down to straighten the corner of his bedcovers. Douglas hurried to right himself in the mirror. "Thank you. I didn't know they'd be back. They _told_ me they wouldn't be back yet."

"I-it's alright, Douglas," Martin's voice was steady, and brought a stop to Douglas' fussing. "I mean it. It's fine."

Douglas nodded gratefully. He smoothed down his hair just in time for the knock at his bedroom door and his father's voice – not entering, but tired and cheerfully inviting him to come down and see them before they went to bed.

The walk home through Fitton was strained. Martin watched Douglas through the dark, from the corner of his eye. Hands in their pockets, they were practically mirrors of one another. Douglas was unusually subdued, and Martin could see his own nervousness reflected in the other boy.

Martin couldn't stop thinking about the minutes before Douglas' parents had interrupted. Regardless of embarrassment or disappointment, he was thrilled – over the moon – as happy as he had been when his father had first taken him to an air show and let him sit in a fighter jet. He just wished that Douglas was _talk._

Douglas stopped walking when they reached the front gate of Martin's house. Martin opened it, but didn't go inside. Instead he turned to Douglas and waited, biting his lip as he tried to think of what to say.

"Thank you for all your help," Douglas said.

"About earlier," Martin started.

"It's fine, Martin."

"I-I _know_ – I know it's fine – it's absolutely fine," Martin said. Douglas blinked in surprise and Martin hurried to continue. "I mean it. I-it's fine."

"Fine as in... leave it be?" Douglas inquired slowly. He shifted uncomfortably and wrung his hands together in an unfamiliar gesture, and Martin noted that he was close enough to reach out and take them. "Or..." Douglas paused. "Or _fine_ as in you liked it, let's do it again?"

Giddiness rushed through Martin so quickly it nearly knocked him off his feet.

"Th-the second one," he said. "I... I-I like _you_ actually."

Douglas didn't respond. Ever so slowly, his cheeks split into a smile. Martin was too nervous to move, so he let himself to led as Douglas reached for his hands where they were tucked into his pockets, and pulled him close. He pressed back when Douglas kissed him, and blinked at him through the dark when he pulled back.

Then he patted Douglas' shoulder and squeezed when they said goodbye.

Martin couldn't loiter outside for too long. His mother was probably twitching at the curtains already. He waited until he could no longer see Douglas retreating down the street – and then resisted the urge to leap into the air for joy.


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter Twelve

Romance was one of those things that Douglas was sure he was an expert in. Sure, he was young but he had experienced enough fleeting loves to know the steps. He had read enough books and seen enough Disney movies to know the ingredients required in a perfect romance. The start of a relationship was filled with fluttering hearts and the burning desire to impress – to reach for flowers, and sonnets, and grand gestures in the time they spent together. It was tricky to achieve when studying for their A Levels and keeping their relationship from Douglas' parents, but Douglas was determined to make the most of being with Martin – after all, it wasn't every day he got to date one of his closest friends.

It was a shame – in as much as Douglas could call absolute delight a shame – that Martin's idea of romance was completely different.

As far as Martin was concerned, dating involved acting just as they always had – as the best of friends with the exception of sideways glances and those pleased little red-faced smirks that Douglas was growing ever so fond of. The only real change was the way that every now and then, when they were alone or near a shadowed alcove, Martin would take Douglas by the arm, drag him out of sight, and snog him senseless.

Martin was as clumsy and nervous as ever, but Douglas had no desire to deter him.

Which was how Arthur and Theresa found out. And how Carolyn found out. She had caught them underneath GERTI's wing – the flight-deck had been out of limits due to minor repairs being made to the controls. To Douglas' relief, Carolyn had rolled her eyes and left them to it, making it clear that she wouldn't pay them if they traded chores for fumbles.

It was almost relaxing to get an hour or two with Martin where they weren't either revising or groping one another.

Noon on a Saturday in the middle of April brought the two of them to the porta-cabin at the airfield. While Douglas sat with Carolyn at her desk, helping her set up the online side of her new company, he watched Martin from across the room. Martin was helping 'train' Arthur in preparation for the interviews at the Oxford Aviation Academy. So far, they hadn't got past walking through the door and shaking the interviewer's hand.

Douglas couldn't fight a smile.

"No, no, _no!_ " Martin exclaimed. He dropped onto the sofa and then launched himself to his feet, running his hands through his hair. Arthur hovered nearby, rubbing his hands together. "I-it need to be _firm_. You need to be polite, a-and professional-"

"But I'm not a professional yet," Arthur replied.

"I _know_ – I know that, I do, b-but you need to _pretend_ that you already are, so that they can _make_ you into one," Martin said. He shook his head and took a deep breath. "A-alright – alright. Alright. Let's try it again."

Arthur did as he was told and left the porta-cabin. Then a knock sounded at the door.

"Come in!" Martin called out.

Arthur entered with a spring in his step and a smile on his feet.

"Hello, I'm Arthur," he said brightly. Martin shook his head and grimaced, as Arthur forgot to be invited to introduce himself _again_ , but said nothing. Arthur stuck out his hand. When Martin reached for it, he gripped so tightly that Martin winced.

"M-maybe that's _too_ firm."

Douglas' attention was drawn from them by a sharp tap on the back of his knuckles. He offered Carolyn an apologetic smile and turned back to the computer. He couldn't quite remember what he had been doing before his mind had drifted. The screen was filled with so many numbers and letters on a plain black background that they made his head swim – he was momentarily dizzied by confusion.

"Head out of the clouds, Douglas," Carolyn instructed, but her voice was soft and lacking its stern edge. "If you want to go and play, be my guest."

"I'm eighteen, Carolyn," Douglas replied. "I don't _play_."

"The amount of Shakespeare I've had to listen to over the years, you might as well put your acting to good use," she said. She tapped out a line of code – or Douglas assumed that was what it was – before continuing. "It's a shame, really. I was quite looking forward to seeing a cheap version of Macbeth."

"Really?"

"It couldn't have been any worse than the damned operas that Herc keeps trying to drag me to."

"I thought you liked opera," Douglas remarked.

"Ah, but Hercules is a snob. He wouldn't have appreciated being dragged to an amateur production," Carolyn grinned. Then she clapped her hands together and passed Douglas a phone for dictation. "Here – make yourself useful. I need to sell this company – I need to hire pilots before I can sell it to customers. Run through a few different tag-lines. Imagine you're performing a play all about MJN."

Douglas blinked, but accepted the phone. He passed it between his hands and glanced across the desk, which wasn't nearly as high with paperwork as it had been in recent months.

"Are you sure you don't want your own words?"

"I haven't the time nor the patience," Carolyn replied. She went back to typing, glancing at a web-page on another screen for reference. "I'll pay you extra if it brings in a fair amount of clients – not a lot, mind you. Enough for a nice pair of shoes or a haircut."

Reluctantly, Douglas pushed back from the desk and kicked his feet up. He ignored Carolyn's stern glare and began to think, watching Martin and Arthur bumble around as he did. There was something pleasing about knowing that his words would be emblazoned on MJN's site whenever it came to life – a little piece of him that was successful and would last forever while his youth was slipping away.

If Martin took Carolyn up on her offer once he had his pilots' licence, then he would reap the rewards, just as Arthur would. It was a nice thought.

Martin couldn't remember a time when he had been happier. There was a month left, at most, before they would be sitting their exams and yet he couldn't feel even a shiver of nerves. He was good at exams. He was spending less time in the library he would have liked, but he had replaced that time with hours of friends and rushing about on the airfield, getting work experience for his CV.

Theresa was already making plans for her Gap year, having received her conditional offer from the university of her choice – politics rather than flight, but it was a future at least. He and Arthur were booked in for interviews at the earliest opportunity once their results came in, and Douglas had shown him – with a fair amount of relief – the letter confirming that Oxford had accepted him conditionally.

The future was looming nearer and Martin was eager to enjoy every second they had left in Fitton. Enjoy it, he did – more than he had enjoyed anything since he had been a child in Duxford Air Museum.

At lunch, now that April had turned the grass damp, the four of them sat together, talking about all sorts of things. Martin would sit across from Douglas without fail, and Douglas would brush their ankles together. Martin had to fight a flutter of giddiness every time, and he couldn't help but be thrilled. During Physics classes they still sat either side of the aisle at the front of the room. They couldn't talk much, but Douglas was an expert at passing notes. When one of them got out early, they would meet outside at the toll of the bell and make _marvellous_ use of the five minutes between lessons.

It was bliss.

Even Douglas' football mates had taken well to Martin being around. They didn't have much to talk about. They didn't have much in common. Some of them were less than friendly, but Douglas promptly set them right – that, or he ignored them completely and they didn't kick up a fuss. Martin had taken to watching the matches from the sidelines. Douglas looked good covered in mud, even if he was oddly skilled at getting sweaty without falling in the dirt.

After one such match, Martin was swarmed by Phil, Terry, and Dirk while Douglas switched his filthy shirt for a jumper. They tossed him the ball, which he dropped in his haste not to get dirt on his hands.

"You alright, mate?" Phil laughed as the ball bounced off in the opposite direction. "How'd we do?"

"Oh, u-um, good," Martin replied. "Yes, good."

"We didn't have a chance once we were down to ten," Terry grumbled.

"You should come out with us," Phil said. "Have a kick about."

"I-I um, I'm not sure I'd be any good," Martin stammered. He ran a hand through his hair and glanced over Phil's shoulder, to where Douglas was smiling and obviously taking his time. "I can run, but I um... last time I tried to kick a ball I tripped over it."

The lads laughed and Douglas chose that moment to reappear. As the lads dispersed, he swung an arm around Martin's shoulder – too close to be friendly, but nowhere near as close as he was capable of getting. Martin didn't listen to what he said to his friends. Most of the banter went over his head. He only started paying attention again when they passed the school theatre and Douglas went quiet.

"You know, it's a shame you don't have anything like that," Douglas remarked. He saw Martin's confusion and hastily started walking at a normal pace, leaving the theatre behind as he plastered on a smile. "Like acting, or football."

"Why's that?" Martin asked.

He was glad that he didn't have to face Douglas' disappointment. The play had been a success without him. Neither of them had attended. They had spent the evening of the whole school dress rehearsal walking hand in hand through Fitton's high-street. There wasn't much to do but loiter, and that had been enough.

"Because I've got nothing to cheer on," Douglas explained. He sighed and leaned against Martin as they walked. "It's not like I can applaud your encyclopaedic knowledge of aviation."

"You could do other things," Martin said, and he shot Douglas a sideways glance as he nudged him in the ribs. He wanted to slip his arm around Douglas' waist, but they were so close to the main building that soon they would be surrounded by other students and teachers all thronging together in their hurry to get to class.

Douglas' chuckle was infectious, and soon Martin was grinning. He didn't stop until he heard his voice called out from somewhere far off. Douglas ground to a halt, pulling his arm from around Martin's shoulders, and Martin missed the warmth. It was cast from his mind, however, at the sight of his sister storming over to him, phone in hand.

"What?"

"You can't bring him over today," Caitlin informed him, clipped and curt.

"Why not?" Martin shot back.

"It's alright, Martin," Douglas said, placing a hand on his shoulder.

Martin shrugged him off.

"N-no, it's not," Martin insisted. "We need to go over the assessment objectives for your Chemistry. I've got the whole week planned out – i-intensive studying, properly planned out."

"Yeah, well, Simon's bringing some of his work mates over, and I'm inviting Stacey for dinner, so there won't be room," Caitlin replied with a shrug. "There's not space at the table for all of us. He's round all the time."

"Bring Stacey round another time."

"Are you saying your friends are more important than mine?" Caitlin demanded.

"N-no, I'm not," Martin replied. He could feel Douglas' eyes on the back of his neck as he gathered himself up and placed his hands on his waist. "B-but really, this is _important_. Our exams are in a _month –_ Stacey can come over any time. S-so actually, she's not as-"

"Martin, really, leave it. It's fine," Douglas interrupted. He placed a hand on Martin's shoulder and stepped past him, offering Caitlin a stiff smile. She sighed and rolled her eyes, not quite apathetic but bored by his presence already. "I'm sure my parents wouldn't mind if we used my room. They won't be home until late anyway – double shifts."

Martin didn't respond at first. His cheeks were hot and confusion caught his tongue as he looked between Douglas and his sister. He hadn't seen Douglas' parents since the first night that they had kissed, and he wasn't sure how much they knew of him – whether they even liked him. Still, if Douglas thought it was a good idea.

"I-if that's alright with you," he said, eventually.

Douglas nodded but he didn't say a word. When Martin turned back, Caitlin was already striding across the tarmac.

Revising at Douglas' house was far different than revising at Martin's. For a start, Douglas actually sat down and worked studiously, fighting the restlessness under his skin as he completed every task that he was set – far more quickly and successfully than when they had started their venture. There were no model planes to fiddle with, and Douglas was only distracted once by a sheet of paper which was quickly turned _into_ a plane.

Besides that, there were fingers brushing past fingers and glances through his fringe, which was in dire need of a trim, and there was the delightful sight of Martin's cheeks pink and proud as he played professor and helped Douglas to learn things that even _he_ hadn't known before they had started. Martin's mind was like a sponge when it came to information, and even though Douglas would never admit it, he was in awe of Martin's abilities.

The soft touches ended when Douglas' parents returned. They stayed in the dining room at the corner of the table, but Douglas' voice lodged in his throat except for when it was necessary to answer a question. While Clarke puttered around the kitchen, Alice flitted exhaustedly around the house, muttering about nurses' wages and leaning over Douglas' shoulder to make suggestions. It wasn't quite uncomfortable. When Douglas caught Martin's eye, Martin offered him an apologetic grimace and then listened politely to Douglas' mothers' advice regarding the fourth assessment objective in his Biology paper.

Then came dinner. The four of them sat around the table, Douglas pushing his food around the plate while Martin answered question after question.

He stammered and blushed, but Douglas was actually impressed by how successfully Martin's pride stopped him from faltering. Indignation put steel in his demeanour. He presented himself as the sort of rule-abiding friend that his father was pleased to meet, and the ambitious go-getter that his mother admired – not that that stopped her from interrogating him.

Douglas wondered, as he watched, what they would think if he revealed that they were dating. They had never been outwardly disapproving of same-sex relationships – more dismissive. It wasn't part of their life... that they knew of. Douglas decided not to say a word and instead skewered a carrot on the end of his fork.

"So do you have any family in the RAF?" Clarke asked as he dabbed at his chin with a napkin. Douglas has seen Martin doing the same thing, watching his parents from the corner of his eye so that he knew how to behave; dinner in the Richardson household was far different from dinner in the Crieff house. "I was under the impression a lot of pilots had military experience."

"O-oh, no, no military experience," Martin replied. "That's not really my thing."

"Commercial then?"

"N-no... no... my dad's an electrician – a-and he does other things, but that's what it says on my van," Martin explained. He brought a potato to his lips, and then lowered it, awkwardly clearing his throat. "M-my mum works for the council though. A-and she's in the Women's Institute. But um... no pilots as far as I know."

"Well good for you," Clarke said, offering Martin an appraising glance. "Flying takes a lot of skill – and a lot of expertise. I'm surprised you've got time to help our Dougie out."

"I-I already know a lot of what I need," Martin said. He glanced at Douglas, but Douglas only frowned and shrugged. "But Douglas knows a lot too. H-he's got a hand of most things, a-and he's really smart. I-I think he just needed to work on time management, a-and motivation, a-and..." Martin looked to Douglas again, and Douglas must have shown something on his face, as Martin hastily started again. "And we were talking about me."

"You should make sure to focus on your own work as well," Alice said. Despite her exhaustion, she watched Martin through shrewd eyes, as she did with all of Douglas' friends. Arthur had faced the same judgement, and he still wasn't sure that she was impressed. "It wouldn't do to let your grades slip. Where are you planning to study?"

"Oxford Aviation Academy," Martin replied with a burst of pride that showed on his face.

"Very impressive. And you'll be near our Dougie," Alice continued. "It will be good for you both to know someone in the area. When I was at Oxford, I didn't know anyone until I met my husband." There was a short pause, in which Martin nodded and Douglas rolled his eyes, and then she was off again. "You do realise that pilots' lives aren't just jet-setting adventures. You'll have more to contend with than just stewardesses."

"Oh, _Mum_ , he knows that," Douglas sighed. "Martin's wanted this since he was six."

Martin shot him a fleeting smile, and Douglas' heart rose. His frown lessened.

"I know that, dear, but it's a demanding job. It's important to think about these things," Alice said with a nod and a twirl of her fork. It was Martin that she addressed, speaking to him like an adult even as she slipped into a lecture. "Part of being a pilot is the responsibility – it's like being a doctor. You hold people's lives in your hands. There are rules and procedures that I'm not sure a teenager would be familiar with-"

"Actually, Mrs Richardson, I... I-I _am_ familiar with the rules and regulations," Martin interrupted, and then looked immediately guilty for speaking out of turn. Douglas' mother raised an eyebrow and Martin puffed out his chest ever so slightly. "I-I've been studying CAA guidelines, a-and the different requirements that vary across the different classes of aircraft. I-I know that professionalism is important, a-and I like doing things _by the book-_ "

"Your personal statement said that your biggest flaw is that you're a perfectionist, didn't it?" Douglas drawled as affection fluttered through him.

"W-well it was until you told me not to put that," Martin shot back, glancing at him from the corner of his eye. "B-but my point is... I know the risks, a-and I want to fly, and nothing is going to stop me from doing it... Mrs Richardson, Ma'am."

Clarke and Alice exchanged a silent glance. Douglas watched his father fight a small smile as he delivered a parsnip into his mouth. His eyes travelled to his mother, who was watching Martin with an unreadable expression. He held his breath and shifted his foot to the side, so that his ankle pressed against Martin's. Martin made a small sound in the base of his throat, but didn't turn towards Douglas. Then his mother smirked and let out a faint laugh and brushed her frazzled hair behind one ear.

"I can't argue with that," she said warmly. "As long as you keep each other on track, I'm happy. We wish you all the best, Martin, don't we darling?"

"Of course," Clarke agreed. "Do well and we'll book a flight wherever you end up. What do you think, Dougie?"

"Sure," Douglas replied. Martin's thrilled smile faltered imperceptibly, only to return with a furrowed brow when Douglas pressed his ankle more firmly. "You'll be fine."

Dinner passed without another hitch as conversation turned to the hospital and the difficulties that Douglas would encounter during medical school. Throughout it all, Douglas watched Martin's face pale as he realised just how much work was required – they had never talked in depth about the schools of study. There was one beautiful moment when his father mentioned surgery in which Martin let out an emphatic ' _yeuch!'_ – only to blush and stammer out an apology. Douglas grinned as he too grimaced at the thought of the goop and gunk.

They didn't get a moment alone until they fetched Martin's bag from Douglas' room.

Before Martin could leave the bedroom, Douglas gently kicked the door shut and placed a hand on Martin's shoulder. He trailed his fingers along Martin's collar, and then down the top buttons of his shirt. Martin followed the line of his finger with his eyes, and then looked sharply up to meet Douglas' gaze. It was only then that Douglas closed the space between them and pulled Martin in for a hard, brief kiss.

He kissed him again, and then stepped back.

"Wh-what was that for?" Martin asked. "A-are you alright? You seem..."

"I'm fine, Martin," Douglas replied. He cleared his throat and listened for footsteps in the hall. When there were none, he forced a smile and reached for Martin's hand. He could hold it again when they were clear of the house. For now, he only squeezed once. "You were good tonight... that was gratitude."

"Oh, well... you're welcome," Martin replied. A playful sort of smirk overwhelmed the concern in his posture, and he swayed slightly on his heels. "Anytime – I-I mean it. Anytime."

A rainy lunchtime brought with it a cosy break in the library, surrounded by the shelves and the books and a comfortable shroud of silence. It was just like when they had started out, Martin thought, but without the strained apathy pulling taut between them. Arthur was studying as best he could – which wasn't much, but was something. Theresa was sitting with her feet up and a pen inking elegant patterns up her wrist. Martin himself had grown bored with Maths and had opened a manual in his lap – to seek comfort from the diagrams.

Then he had looked up and seen Douglas staring down at a sheet of paper. It was a single sheet of paper, but Martin felt his heart go out to the other boy. They had received the final copies of their exam timetables that morning, and Douglas had barely said a word since.

Well, that wasn't true. He had teased Arthur mercilessly for using crazy golf as a seduction technique – and the fact that it had worked on the latest cheery girl, this time from the school's dressage team.

Martin nudged Douglas' foot under the table. Douglas didn't react. Martin dropped his book atop the desk and Douglas nearly leapt out of his seat. He blinked as his chest heaved, shaking his head as if to clear it. Martin waited until he had calmed before leaning over and taking his hand.

"Are you alright?" he asked. "It's not a big deal – n-nothing we didn't expect. They haven't even moved anything around."

"I'm _fine_ , Martin," Douglas muttered, and glowered across the desk. He tugged his hand away and Martin had to bite back a prickle of annoyance. It wasn't his fault, or Douglas', that he was nervous. "I'm fine." Douglas tossed the paper aside. "Absolutely fine."

Martin thought that Douglas looked like he was about to cry. Of course, Douglas would do nothing of the sort. He would grumble and pout and come up with games that he could thrash Martin in so that he could prove just how capable he really was. Instead of pandering to him, Martin took the timetable and scrunched it into a ball. Then, making sure that Douglas was watching, he threw it across the room. It landed feet away from the bin.

Douglas managed a faint smile, and Martin was relieved.

Before he could say a word, Theresa hopped up on the desk beside Douglas and swung an arm around his shoulders. He was drawn into conversation quickly and his sour mood seemed to evaporate – except for the lines around his eyes and the downward turn of his lips that only Martin seemed to see. Pulling his book back onto his lap, Martin didn't read a word – he watched and listened as his two favourite people discussed summer plans.

"I've only ever been around Europe with my parents – fancy holidays, you know?"

"Ah, yes, but I was thinking of back-packing," Theresa said. "Hostels, cheap rooms, that sort of thing – and a lot of walking."

"Well I suppose it works if you've got the cash and the ambition," Douglas replied.

"My mother wants me back in one piece," Theresa laughed. "She'll pay."

"Then by all means, spend as much time as you can in Paris," Douglas said. "The countryside is nice, but I wouldn't want to go too long without a soft bed and a good meal."

"You should think about coming with me."

"I don't have time to think to the future."

"With everything else that's going on, you should," Theresa advised. "It would be good, to relieve stress."

"Maybe," Douglas sighed. "I couldn't travel for the whole year though."

"But for the summer?"

"It might be nice."

Martin's heart sank even as a smile tugged at his lips. Warmth filtered through him and he shivered with the cold. Summer was months away, but it was also months long. Between the end of school and his interview, there would be nothing but time... and with the two of them back-packing across Europe, he would be alone again. He would be alone, and they would be together... enjoying their time together, swapping the joys of travel and adventure... two kindred spirits.

Martin shook himself and forced himself to think about the diagrams in his book.


	13. Chapter 13

**Hello dearies, and thank you for reading. I hope you enjoy this installment. This whole story has ended up longer than I thought it would, and it's getting longer still.**

Chapter Thirteen

Confidence aside, Martin still met his exams with a bout of nerves and anxiety. Revision had been so intense that the group had barely had time to talk to each other – or do more than sit in each other's vicinity.

All four of them, even Arthur, had a reason to bury their nose in a book. To be a pilot, to be a doctor, to get a leg up the political ladder, and to prove that he _could_ pass his exams – stress came down with the same heat as the sun, leaving them sweating and tired, and at times, shaking with the strain. For once, Martin was leaning on Douglas just as much as the other boy relied on him. Douglas had taken _reasonably_ well to Martin's suspicions that he was dyslexic – they kept it between the two of them, but he allowed Martin to research and find friendlier study aids.

It had come on slowly – the stuttering had grown worse and the tightness in his chest had grown more pressing. Martin _knew_ that he knew all of the answers that he would need and yet the closer the exam dates came, the more breathless he felt. Anxiety wasn't something that Martin had ever thought to complain about. It made his hands shake and his head spin, but it wasn't something that he could take to his parents. His dad would be sympathetic and his mum would fret, and Martin knew that if anyone else were suffering he would tell them to talk to the school nurse – but _him_... he couldn't work up the nerve.

They'd never let him be a pilot if they thought he'd been talking to psychiatrists.

Douglas noticed when they were in the library. Recently, they spent as much time in the library as they had when they first met. Now there were more silences than there had been, and they _shared_ the books instead of hoarding them. On opposite sides of the desk, they worked over the same questions they had answered before, ingraining the answers into their heads.

Douglas copied out the same sentences, over and over again until his pen flew across the page.

Martin watched the motion from the corner of his eye, tapping the end of his own pen against the desk. His throat was tight and his heart was thrumming, and he couldn't quite take his mind from the imagined exam hall. He had dreamt last night about arriving in the hall and forgetting everything. The papers had grown smaller and smaller and he hadn't been able to read the words. He _knew_ that wouldn't happen, and yet...

He was jolted from his reverie by a light pressure against his ankle. He looked up to see Douglas leaning across the desk, arms folded, one hand outstretched in offering. His fingers flexed as Douglas managed a small smile.

"You alright, Martin?"

"I'm fine – fine. F-fine – I'm fine," Martin replied. He launched himself to his feet, already regretting not taking Douglas' hand. "Just thinking about tomorrow. Th-that's all it is. Nothing to worry about."

He strode towards the nearest bookshelf and tapped his fingers along the spines. Behind him, he heard Douglas' chair scrape. Martin hastily waved his hand.

"N-no, it's alright. Stay there," he instructed.

Douglas ignored him. In seconds, his warmth was a solid at Martin's side. Offering Martin another smile, a sideways glance that Martin's head snapped around to see, only to turn back to the books, Douglas nudged his side. He swayed towards him and stopped just short of leaning against him, stealing a glance over his shoulder.

"You'll be fine, Martin," Douglas said. "For once I agree with you."

"I-I know... I _do_ , I know," Martin agreed.

"Come on," Douglas murmured. He slipped an arm around Martin's waist and tugged playfully, encouragingly. It wasn't quite a hug. The library was quiet this time of day – not a break but a free period that they shared. There was no need for Douglas to pull away, so he didn't. "Where's that pilot's nerves of steel?"

With a rush of fondness – hot and sweet – came another downpour of nerves that had Martin's stomach twisting. He groaned and dropped his head into his hands, levelling the shelf with a kick as he scrubbed his fingers through his hair. He felt Douglas' hand on his shoulder. Martin turned immediately into Douglas' arms and dropped his head onto his shoulder, knees buckling as he tilted towards him. His chest hitched as his lungs refused to stay still. He could hear Douglas muttering something – probably embarrassed – puffing past his ear. Shudders ran through his bones.

The next Martin knew, he was sitting with his back to the shelf. Douglas was at his side, an arm around his shoulders. He wasn't saying anything useful. In fact, Douglas seemed confused as to what she should do. Still, his thumb pressed circles into Martin's upper arm and it grounded him long enough to stop _feeling_ panicked and start _thinking_ about all the things he had to worry about.

" _God_ , what if I fail?"Martin exclaimed, rasping past the pain in his throat. "What if my mind goes blank? Wh-what if they ask something that wasn't in the books?"

"Well, if that happens _I'll_ fail," Douglas said. "But you've read around the subject. You know what you're doing."

"I-I know I do."

"Then just concentrate on breathing," Douglas instructed. He rested his cheek against Martin's shoulder, and then lifted it again. "Or don't concentrate on anything. I don't know, Martin. Try and stop thinking."

Martin nodded, even as his tongue burned with the urge to spit back at him that it was easier said than done. His eyes travelled across the soft lines of Douglas' face, scrunched up with concern, and his hand traced the line of his arm – fingertips pinching the gritty folds of his expensive jumper.

Before he could think through the motion, Martin bridged the space between them. He kissed Douglas with his hands on either side of his face, palms pressing hot against his cheeks. Douglas let out a small 'oomph' of surprise, but kissed back – softly, lips slipping past the hard press of Martin's own. Martin mumbled an apology when his teeth clipped Douglas' own, but he didn't stop – right there in the library, huddled on the floor, he focused on the weight of Douglas' arms around him and the pleasant lack of air in his lungs.

It was easier to think about this than the exams. Martin let himself sink into the heat that coiled in his chest, slipping lower. Soon enough this would be gone too – a pang of desperation tore Martin's hand from Douglas' cheek and wrapped his arm around his shoulders, pulling his closer. Martin tried to breathe him in.

When they broke apart, Douglas ran a hand from Martin's shoulder down his arm. His cheeks were pink and he was adorably flustered. Martin swallowed a prickle of annoyance at how good it felt – how good he looked.

It wasn't fair. None of it was. He had spent so long helping Douglas fulfil his dreams that he hadn't realised what would happen when the exams were over. The world had become so small, and now... it was suddenly large again.

In the end, Martin let Douglas convince him that a fumble in the library was a good idea. He might as well enjoy it while it lasted. Afterwards, they sat together and spoke in quiet words, flinching each time the librarian wandered past a nearby shelf. There was no one else around. Martin wasn't even sure what they were talking about. It was just a comfort not to think about halls filled with desks and a ticking clock.

"And my parents are paying for the tickets over there, and for the accommodation, but I've got to pay for everything else myself," Douglas was saying. "I'll have to see if Carolyn's got any more errands."

"Hmmm."

"Are you going anywhere this summer? I heard your mother talking about family trips."

"Hmmm... oh, o-oh, yes... I think we're going camping."

"That'll be nice. I hope you get good signal out there in the wild," Douglas mused. "International roaming is expensive enough without trying to fight through the wilderness."

"Hmmm..."

Martin couldn't think of what else to say.

There was no tapping. Sitting in the exam room, at the back of a row of desks filled with other students, equally silent, students, Douglas couldn't hear any tapping. His head was filled with the ghost of Martin tapping his pen against a different desk. So many of Martin's revision techniques involved association, and now every fact in Douglas' head was matched with Martin's voice and his habits – which was helpful, as it helped him structure his answers as he leafed through the exam pages – but was also driving him insane.

Doubt wormed under his skin. Douglas pushed through it. He was getting through it. He wasn't flourishing like he did in other areas of his life, but he was taking deep breaths, flexing his fingers around his pen, and he was getting enough words on the page that _hopefully_ he would get a passing grade.

The invigilator let them go row by row. Douglas passed through the doors and into the outside without a word to anyone, even as his mates asked each other in whispered voices what they had got for question six, or why question eight was so poorly worded.

Douglas didn't stop until he met Martin. Martin threw his arms around him, not caring that the others were watching. Douglas fought back with a cheery grin and a few curt remarks about the paper. He didn't want to discuss it – didn't want to jinx it. Instead, he fetched his lunch and joined Martin on the grass near the dining hall. From there, they could eat in comfortable silence and watch Arthur doing the same with the girl from the dressage team- Tiffy, Douglas thought her name was.

"He's got everything worked out, hasn't he?" Martin remarked, pointing at Arthur. There was a smile on his face and a bemused bounce in his tone. "I-I mean, he isn't even worried. Do you think there's a trick to that, o-or is it innate?"

"He's worried," Douglas replied with a shrug. "Arthur's always worried about something, he's normally just too happy to pay it any attention."

"What has _Arthur_ got to worry about?"

"The same things as everyone else," Douglas sighed. He watched his friend from across the grass. "He could fail all of his exams. But, Arthur sees the bright side of everything. If he doesn't get through his interview, he can work for his mother – she's got a company now. He'll be upset, probably, but he'll pick himself up and work twice as hard to prove to Carolyn that he's worth keeping. And, he loves her. He'll be fine, whatever happens. But that doesn't mean he's not nervous."

Douglas watched Martin nod sagely. After a while, Martin groaned and lay back. He dropped an arm over his eyes to block out the sun. His shirt slid up his middle, and Douglas only stared for a moment.

"Do you think we should-"

"No revision today, Martin," Douglas interrupted. "It can wait until tomorrow."

Martin didn't look happy, but he didn't push. He propped himself up on his elbows and frowned.

Mercifully, before he could speak, Theresa dropped down beside him. Douglas let out the breath he had been holding and Martin startled, the tension leaving him. He looked relieved. Douglas couldn't blame him.

"Well _that_ was a nightmare," Theresa announced as she flopped back. Then she paused and looked between them. "Is everything alright?"

"F-fine!"

"It's fine."

Theresa didn't look convinced. However, she had her own problems, and Douglas was happy to listen to them as the sun poured down on them. Nightmarish parents and the daunting mass of university looming on the horizon were things that he could empathise with. It was nicer hearing it from someone else's point of view. Martin just rolled his eyes and nodded along, as if he had heard it all before.

"And while Captain Crieff prepares the aircraft for flight-"

"A-and illuminates the seat-belt sign!"

Douglas shot Martin a withering glare that didn't meet the fluttering in his chest as he let the intercom switch flick off. Sitting in GERTI's First Officer's seat, with Martin in the Captain's position, he reached again for the switch. Martin took these games far too seriously. Then again, he was rehearsing for the rest of his life, and Douglas couldn't help but imagine what Martin would look like in a few years – taller, wider, sharper cheekbones and a handsome adultness to his freckled face, kitted out in some sleek uniform.

Shaking himself, Douglas flicked the intercom switch and rose up slightly so that he could see over his shoulder. The doors between the flight-deck, the galley, and the cabin were open, allowing a clear view all the way through to where Arthur was waiting.

"Alright then. The Captain has illuminated the seat-belt signs," Douglas drawled. "Now if you would be so kind as to listen to Wing Commander Shappey as he delivers the safety demonstration."

"Thanks Douglas!" Arthur yelled through the plane. He waved his arm over his head, and then dived into his speech.

From the flight-deck, Douglas couldn't make out what Arthur was saying. However, as he held his arms out to the side, pointing here and there, he suspected that Arthur was delivering the entire speech to the imaginary passengers that they had conjured up.

"Not as pretty as the ladies you'll be working with in a few years," Douglas remarked.

"B-but still fun," Martin replied. He shrugged and flicked the intercom off. "I'll miss him, you know. I-I know I've always wanted this – th-the big airline, but... it's going to be weird without Arthur and Carolyn knocking around, a-and Fitton's not exactly as well managed as most airfields. It's going to be..."

"Exactly what you've always dreamed of," Douglas agreed. He smirked as he caught Martin's eye and watched the boy flush bright red. "Don't pretend you won't love all the rules and regulations. They'll have you polishing your shoes every day and you'll have beat them to it."

"I already polish my shoes-"

"I know, Martin."

They were quiet for a moment. Then Douglas couldn't take the peace any longer. He hopped up from his seat before Martin had time to react, and crossed the flight-deck. He sought out his bag, listening to the clunk of Martin's footsteps behind him.

There was a lightness in his mood – a restless expectation of something. The exams were over and they wouldn't know how they'd done until mid-August. Martin's family wasn't going anywhere until Caitlin had finished her school year. Douglas would be leaving earlier, with Theresa, at the start of July. It was only mid-May now. With no more exams, there was no reason to keep them in school.

It was time that they could spend together. It was time in which Douglas, on a sunny Tuesday, could visit the shops and find what he was currently looking for. He straightened up as he turned back to Martin, hiding his hands behind his back.

"Wh-what are you doing?"

"I got you something," Douglas replied.

Martin's eyes widened and his interest was piqued. Of course, Martin would never admit to being interested – he was too polite. He rocked on his heels though, hands winding together as he tried to get a good look behind Douglas' back. Douglas just grinned and tipped up his chin.

"What is it?" Martin asked.

"Just something to keep you motivated," Douglas replied. "Or, if all goes belly up, something to add to your shrine."

With that, Douglas revealed a replica of a Captain's hat. It had been fairly cheap, and it wasn't made of the best quality materials, but it looked the part. Martin's eyes latched onto it, and as he took it he turned it in circles. Martin's lips opened and closed as he inspected the hat. Douglas felt something dip in his stomach and ran a hand through his hair.

"It's more of a gesture than a gift, actually," he said. "I'm saving up, so..."

"It's great," Martin interrupted. "R-really, it's amazing. Thank you, I..." Martin stopped long enough to pull Douglas into a hug. Then he jerked back and placed the hat on his own head, more to get it out of his hands it seemed than anything else – and he rubbed his hands together. "A-actually, Douglas, I got something for you too. I-it's not much, I just thought-"

"You didn't have to get me anything."

"I know, b-but neither did you so..." Martin shrugged. "Great minds think alike, hm?"

Martin's bag was still in the porta-cabin. Leaving Arthur on the plane, Douglas followed Martin across the airfield and waited with bated breath to see what he had in store. This was new. This was an exchange of gifts without prompting, just because the two of them wanted to share things – to give each other things. It made something sweet and hot whirl in Douglas' abdomen and he hoped that Martin felt the same – the thought of him feeling the same made his cheeks tickle.

When Martin had finished digging through his bag of things - most of which weren't important on a day to day basis – it was with a journal in hand. He thrust it into Douglas' grasp, taking advantage of Douglas' confused silence as he looked down at the brown cover. Douglas flicked through it and saw not only lined pages, but sheets for music, and doodles, and addresses.

"I-I know you're still iffy about your writing, b-but I thought maybe this could help," Martin was saying, somewhere distant now. "A-and even if you don't want it for that, y-you could write poetry, or compose music, o-or just scribble on the pages. Y-you can do anything with it really, l-like a diary or your adventures without me."

"This is perfect, Martin," Douglas said softly.

Swallowing hard, he tucked the journal against his chest and twitched towards Martin. He didn't pull him in for a hug, but he did take Martin's hand – one hand, as the other was still clutching the journal so tightly that his fingers ached. Martin flushed and ducked his head, running his fingers through his hair.

"I-I thought it would make a decent goodbye present."

Douglas nodded – then his heart stopped. His breath caught in his throat as his brow furrowed.

"What do you mean a _goodbye_ present?" he asked. Something in his voice must have been harder than he had intended, as Martin stilled. Douglas pulled his hand back and placed both over the journal, which pressed over his heart. "Why would we need to say goodbye?"

"W-well we're all going our separate ways, aren't we?" Martin stammered, eyes wide as if he didn't understand. "I-I thought the hat-"

"That wasn't a condolence prize," Douglas shot back. "That was a gift. I... I thought we were staying in touch over the summer."

"W-well, we are-"

"But you think this is _goodbye_?"

Through the sudden haze in Douglas' mind, he could see and hear clearly the inside of the porta-cabin. He had no idea where Carolyn was, but he didn't want her to hear this. Lowering his voice, Douglas shook his head and stared at Martin. Martin tried to step closer, but Douglas took a step back.

"I-I don't _want_ it to be," Martin insisted. His cheeks were red now not from embarrassment, but from exertion as his chest hitched once – only once.

"Then why say it at all?"

"B-because..." Martin threw his hands in the air and shrugged. He choked over his words, but didn't hold back from saying them. "I-I thought that... w-well this isn't going to survive this, is it? I-I mean – I'm going away with my family, a-and I'm going to flight school, a-and you're going to medical school, a-and doctors and pilots don't exactly spend a lot of time together, do they?"

"Says _who_?" Douglas demanded. "I thought..."

Douglas wasn't sure what he thought. Martin wasn't just his boyfriend – he was one of his best friends. He was a driving force behind the successes that Douglas _needed_ rather than simply _wanted_. He had spent months falling more and more in love with the burning desire that fuelled Martin's dreams – the frantic charm. He had been looking forward to more than drunken nights out and the freedom that university would bring – he had pictured Oxford, and the two of them meeting up and the end of a long day's studies.

"I-I thought you wouldn't want to-"

"Why wouldn't I?"

"I-I don't _know_ ," Martin exclaimed. He hastily lowered his voice when Douglas' eyes flashed towards the closed door of Carolyn's office. "I don't know, I just... I-I... Douglas-"

"Stop it, Martin." Douglas shook his head and gritted his teeth. Still clutching the journal to his chest, he rocked on his heels and then jolted back. He remembered with a grimace that he had left his bag on the plane. "I don't want to talk about this, Martin."

"A-alright, I'm sorry-"

"Sorry? Oh, you're _sorry_ ," Douglas muttered. He whirled around, still clutching the journal. His eyes were riveted on the hat that still sat upon Martin's head. Something panged in his chest as he closed the space between them. "I gave you that because I _didn't_ want to say goodbye. It was a sign that we're _good_ – that I _want_ things to keep going."

"Y-you never said-"

"You never said anything was wrong," Douglas shot back.

"It isn't," Martin insisted. He jittered as he jabbed at his own chest. "I-I just... I just... I-I mean, why _would_ you want to keep this – keep us. W-we're at school – we're not. This isn't our lives yet, a-and... a-and we're going in different directions. A-and I'm _me_."

"Are you about to tell me that no one's ever loved you for _you_ before?" Douglas sneered before he could stop himself.

It was _exactly_ the sort of thing that he could imagine of Martin – he was fixated, pedantic, and arrogant, and he had so much trouble making _friends_. If Martin _did_ have some tragic back-story, Douglas knew that his heart would crumble. He would forget his own insult and hug him – kiss him – possibly invite him home for tea just to prove he cared. Douglas was almost relieved when Martin rolled his eyes and shook his head.

"O-of course not," Martin retorted. "I-I've dated people... a-a person... Theresa... a-and that ended well. Th-this has nothing to do with anyone else."

"Then it's me you don't trust."

"N-no..."

Douglas could have argued more. He could have demanded answers. Instead, he raised his hands in surrender and stepped away. He turned his back on Martin and headed towards the door.

"I can't do this, Martin," he said. "I'm going home."

"Y-you're going away with Theresa," Martin exclaimed. He staggered forwards half a step before Douglas turned to him. Then he froze. "You've got so much in common, a-and you're going travelling together."

"So you're _jealous_?"

" _No!_ "

"I can't do this," Douglas repeated. He passed the journal between his hands and sniffed, and then turned back to the door. "I'm going _home_."

His hand was on the doorknob before Martin spoke again.

"A-are you breaking up with me?"

Douglas didn't turn around.

"I'm not breaking up with you," he said. "I just don't want to talk to you right now. I've got too much else to deal with. I know you haven't been round in weeks, so you haven't _heard_ what my parents are like, but it's... they won't _shut up_. But you can, so please, Martin _shut up_ and let me go home."

With that, Douglas stormed from the porta-cabin. He got as far as the gates before he remembered his bag and had to return to GERTI. He didn't see Martin there. He didn't speak to Arthur. He just left.

Near midnight, Martin lay in bed staring up at the ceiling. All that he could think about was the post-exam drinks that they had planned to share and the fact that the entire six-pack was now stashed under Douglas' bed, waiting to be consumed. Douglas would drink it all if he was properly motivated. He wasn't an unfriendly drunk, or a particularly cheerful one. He was young and not a party-goer. Still, it was a sad picture.

He couldn't help but feel like he had done something wrong. He couldn't tell what.

When the tension grew too much, Martin reached for his phone. He fired off a quick text.

 _Are your parents giving you a hard time?_

Douglas' response came ten minutes later.

 _No. They're being supportive. Too supportive. It's driving me mad._

Relief flooded Martin's chest as he read the words. He was so pleased that he actually felt guilty for not sympathising more. Douglas was talking to him, and that was all that mattered. Martin sent another text.

 _Are you alright?_

His phone pinged.

 _Not particularly. I'm still furious._

 _I thought you were upset_ , Martin sent back.

 _How perceptive of you_.

Martin rolled his eyes and bit his tongue, even though Douglas wasn't there to hear a response.

 _I didn't mean to upset you_ , he typed.

 _You did though,_ Douglas replied.

 _We've still got time before we head off,_ Martin sent him.

Douglas' response was succinct. Martin didn't know whether to feel hope or dread.

 _I suppose._


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter Fourteen

"You know we don't have to do this now," Theresa remarked. She was sitting on her bed, folding the contents of her wardrobe onto two piles, and tossing the third group to where Martin sat on the floor, suitcase open in front of him. "I'm not going anywhere for weeks now. The sun's out. We could be out as well."

"It's no trouble," Martin replied. "I want to help."

"It calms you down, you mean."

"Y-yes... that's what I mean," Martin murmured.

He offered Theresa a single glance before turning back to her suitcase. Knowing her, she would disrupt his careful folding and filing of her possessions within days of setting off. Still, it was worth the time it took to prepare her. If she was going to be travelling Europe for a year, with Douglas at her side for only a month or two, then he would rather know that he had helped her all he could rather than letting her wander into the world unaided.

And... it was better than sitting around all day thinking of the months that _he_ would be alone.

Martin maintained his silence until a flowery dress flopped over his head. Huffing, he scrambled to pull it from his head and fold it into a small bundle, securing it in the case. A moment later, Theresa dropped down beside him and nudged his arm.

"As grateful as I am, Martin, I'd rather do this myself than watch you mope for hours on end," she said.

"Have you got your Euros yet?"

"More than I know what to do with. My mother sorted it out," Theresa replied. "I mean it, Martin. You're horrible company."

"Yes, well – I-I'm going to miss you, aren't I?" Martin said. He picked up a pair of sandals, and then traded them for some sturdy boots. They would be more useful. In truth, he was barely paying attention to what he was doing. "You've been here since I moved to Fitton. It's going to be weird here on my own. I-I mean, I know Arthur's still going be here, b-but it's not the same, is it?"

"Have you seen much of Douglas?"

As always, Theresa cut through his rambling and saw straight to the heart of the matter. She patted Martin's shoulder and returned to the bed, reaching for a checklist that Martin had written out for her. Martin watched her go, swallowing a lump in his throat. His cheeks were tickled red but not in the good way that he had grown used to in the past few months.

"O-of course I have," he said. "You've seen us. We've spent loads of time together."

"I mean time _alone_."

Martin grimaced.

It had been too long since he and Douglas had been alone together. With no school and no revision sessions, there was no _reason_ to be together except that Martin _wanted_ to be – he _missed_ Douglas. They were still friends, of course, and they joined Arthur and Theresa for lunches and days wandering through Fitton, or helping out at the airfield. And Douglas had said that they weren't broken up – as far as Martin was concerned, Douglas was still his boyfriend and would be until he crossed the Channel.

There had been one brunch. Douglas called it a brunch, because that was what he was like – smug and full of himself, eager to show off, and Martin had smiled to himself at Douglas' insistence. It was just a cafe, at ten in the morning, three days after they had argued. They had drunk tea and shared a breakfast muffin. They hadn't said much at all, other than 'sorry' over and over again.

Douglas had been withdrawn. Martin had taken Douglas' hand and hoped that squeezing sweaty palms together would make Douglas realise that he didn't _want_ him to go away. That was the opposite of what he wanted. Douglas had tangled his fingers through his and they had spent the next hour or so as friends, playing word games and strolling through Fitton. There had been no kiss goodbye.

Martin knew that he had said something wrong. So had Douglas. It was easier to pretend that neither of them had. It made the irritation in his guts bubble down into nothing more than discomfort.

"W-we are alright, aren't we?" Martin had stammered, leaning on Douglas' gate.

"Of course we are, Martin," Douglas had replied. The gate remained closed between them.

"So I'll see you tomorrow?"

"Maybe."

If Theresa hadn't been leaving soon too, Martin would have sought her out for company and reassurance. Now all he could do was cling to her. The world was slipping away from him, Martin thought as he folded the same shirt for the third time – a lacy affair that Theresa wore to annoy her mother. Without school, there was nothing to keep his days in check. All he had to look forward to now was his interview with the Aviation Academy, and the routine that flight school would bring. If Douglas still wanted him when they reached Oxford, there would be that too, he supposed.

"You'll take care of Douglas, won't you?"

"Hmm?"

Theresa glanced up, eyes widening with surprise.

"D-Douglas. You'll look after him, when you're travelling?" Martin elaborated. He abandoned his efforts and pushed her suitcase aside, pulling his knees up to his chest. "I-I know he seems to know what he's doing, a-and he does, but he's... he'll be in a foreign country and he'll be coming up with all sort of weird and ridiculous ways to cut corners. You'll look after him, won't you?"

"I won't let him join a gang or a cartel," Theresa snorted.

"I-I mean it!"

"I know you do, Martin, don't worry. You're adorable, really you are," she sighed. "I know that Douglas thinks so. He's going to miss you too. He told me."

Martin's head snapped up. A lump formed in his throat. He wanted to say more, and to know more. Instead he kept his mouth shut and thought about Douglas quibbling over leaving – for _him_. It was wrong of him to enjoy it. Still... Martin couldn't keep the smile from his face. Life was larger than a single boyfriend – nevertheless, he was thrilled.

"Thanks for coming, Douglas," Arthur said. They walked side by side across the airfield in the noon sun, Arthur grinning the wobbly, faintly faltering grin that came with a twitch in his step and too many red-faced sideways glances. Douglas did his best to ignore it. "Mum's been mad lately. Madder than usual, that is. She's got Herc on side, and that's cheering her up-"

"Oh, he's agreed to work for her then?"

"Yup, it's brilliant, isn't it?" Arthur replied. Then she shook himself and continued. "Anyway, Dad called her and she's been trying to find a First Officer, and she said she needed better minions so I thought – who better?"

"Like I said, Arthur, it's nothing," Douglas sighed. "You asked, I came."

He buried his hands in his pockets and glanced towards the plane, which was gleaming. As far as he knew, Arthur and Martin had earned 'work experience' for their CVs by cleaning GERTI from top the bottom... without him.

Martin had been doing that a lot lately. Douglas was proud of him – he _was_. Every time he saw Martin at the airfield, he was thrown back to the first time he had stepped foot in Martin's room and fiddled with the model aeroplanes. The boy that had spent hours alone building and painting those planes deserved every second of happiness on the flight-deck. Oxford would be lucky to have him. All of his dreams were coming true. Still, it panged slightly to know that Martin no longer needed him around.

When they entered the porta-cabin, Martin looked up with wide eyes. He was alone, flicking through one of the dusty manuals that had come with GERTI. Douglas froze on the threshold. Arthur collided with the back of him, and then hopped into the room, oblivious as ever.

"Where'd Mum go?"

"Wh-what? Oh – she got a phone call," Martin replied. He snapped the book shut as if he wasn't sure what to do with it, and staggered to his feet. Again, he didn't look as if he knew why he had done so. "She went outside. I-I don't know where."

"Brilliant. I'll tell her we're all here there," Arthur said.

With that, he bustled from the room and Douglas was left alone with only Martin and the resounding silence to keep him company. Things had been strained lately. They had shared a single kiss and held hands once. Douglas had wanted to do more. Something had stopped him every time the opportunity arose.

Just as Douglas conjured something brief and charming to say, Martin beat him to it.

"H-hey..."

"Hello, Martin."

"I-I've been thinking about you," Martin said. He tossed his book back onto the tattered sofa and pushed a hand through his hair, dragging it over the back of his neck. His cheeks were pale with nerves and Douglas longed to cross the space between them even as he stayed rooted to the spot. Martin similarly rocked on his heels. "I-I've been thinking about calling you actually – o-or coming round, b-but I know what your parents are like, a-and I remember you saying that your dad was taking a few weeks off-"

"Half days actually," Douglas corrected. "He's not as important as Mum. They can spare him."

"A-and has that been good?"

"He took me fishing. Father son bonding, you know... that sort of thing."

"Oh... o-oh, that must have been nice." There was no pleasure in watching Martin squirm. Martin must have known it as he cut to the chase." I-it's been so hard to get time alone – w-without interruptions, I mean, a-and I... I haven't known what to say."

Douglas' voice caught his throat as he nodded. Through his stubbornness, he finally caught what Martin had said to begin with. Something warm and sweet coiled in his chest – left him flexing his fingers, perplexed at his own refusal to function like a normal person. His act was perfect on a normal day. It was impossible to act around Martin – he hated the 'terrific' Douglas, but wasn't ready, Douglas suspected, for the version of him that was needy and willing to keep wanting him even when he was miles away. Martin hadn't even thought it was there.

But he was here now.

"You've been thinking of me?" Douglas remarked.

"W-well, I-I guess," Martin shrugged. He cleared his throat and shuffled his feet, and Douglas was reminded of the last time they had been alone in this room. "M-mostly because I haven't been able to find five minutes alone with you t-to talk."

"You didn't enjoy crazy golf?" Douglas shot back, recalling how brutally he had thrashed Martin the previous weekend. It had been Arthur's idea. They had got along like the friends that they were, but instead of walking home together as Douglas had convinced himself they would, they had gazed at one another... and then went their separate ways.

"We're always around other people," Martin insisted.

"That's not what I want, Martin," Douglas replied. He bit his lip, and then reconsidered the motion. When his hands started to wring together, he slid them back into his pockets. Slowly, he crossed the room until he was standing at arm's length, facing Martin. "You're right, actually. We need to talk. I know I said I wasn't breaking up with you-"

"G-good, because I don't want you to," Martin cut in. Now his face was red and he reached out to Douglas, stopping just short of taking his arms in his wavering hands. His fingers clenched as he frowned to himself.

"The only reason we spent so much time together was because I needed help studying," Douglas said. Deep down, something panged and he knew that he wouldn't have allowed anyone else to bully him into reading and re-reading – that nobody else would have cared enough to _fixate_ on him until they understood every single one of his issues. He had been Martin's pet project but he had also been... they were always talking – talking, and laughing, and kissing and discussing the future. Douglas shook himself. "It's different now that that's not there."

"B-but that doesn't mean there can't be _anything_ there."

"You have so little faith in me you thought I'd dump you and take up with your ex the moment I leave the country," Douglas shot back, voice turning to acid on his tongue.

"N-no, that wasn't it," Martin said. "I-I wouldn't _blame_ you is what I meant."

"Because I'm that sort of person-"

"B-because I'm a pain in the arse," Martin exclaimed. He flushed even darker as Douglas blinked in surprise. "A-and I'm your tutor – I-I _was_ your tutor and I wouldn't blame you if you wanted to cast off me and everything about those bloody exams." As Douglas held his breath, Martin paced back a step and rubbed his hands together. "B-but, you're... y-you're as much... you're so quick to assume. Y-you dove straight into _this_ – i-into us, a-and then you plan on travelling a-and you don't even tell me until after a-and... a-and you told me that you had no intention of breaking up b-but let's be honest Douglas, h-how was I meant to know that? I-I can't know how you feel if you don't tell me!"

"What are you trying to say, Martin?" Douglas asked. He didn't dare move.

Martin was, in many ways, predictable to a tee – in others, he was the most unpredictable person he had ever met. Like a shadow that had been looming for weeks now, Douglas felt as if _he_ was being left.

"I-I'm saying... I-I guess I'm saying that I'm _eighteen_ , Douglas. I-I may seem like I've got my whole life planned out but I don't know what I'm doing. I've never had a relationship that's lasted more than a month," Martin said. Then she threw his hands up in surrender. "I-I guess I'm saying forgive me? Y-yes, forgive me... please?"

"Was that a question?"

"Yes it was a question," Martin huffed.

Douglas thought for a moment. And he stared. He stared at Martin, trying to get inside his head, but he couldn't. All he knew were the fidgeting lines of his body and the nervous twist of his lips. He was stubborn, and annoyed at both of them.

"A month?" Douglas said finally. "As in, you didn't think this would last?"

"I've planned out my career, not every second of my life."

"But you see I _did_ think this would last," Douglas replied. "I wouldn't have started it if I didn't."

Martin's eyes widened and his mouth fell open. Something seemed to dawn in his expression, as if he hadn't considered before that Douglas might have wanted _him_. He rolled his eyes and dragged a hand down his face, cursing under his breath.

"Oh..."

All of a sudden, the weight lifted from Douglas' chest. Instead of relief, he felt only a prickle of trepidation and the familiar tang of annoyance – fond, but still unwelcome. For some reason, his mind leapt back to afternoons spent in full costume rehearsing Banquo's lines at the top of his voice. There would be no more of that. There would be no more of _anything_ in quite the way he had had it before. Everything was different – tinged with the daunting weight of adulthood. This was one of those conversations. He didn't want to fight.

"How about we both admit to making mistakes and move on," Douglas suggested.

"A-and you give us another chance?" Martin asked.

"I never _stopped_ , Martin. Honestly, I've never known you give up so easily," Douglas sighed. He shook his head as Martin grinned. Then Martin surged forwards, tipping up his chin for a kiss, and Douglas stiffened. His arms were out in seconds, gently nudging Martin back. Douglas ignored the disappointment on Martin's face as he sniffed and closed his eyes. "I said yes, Martin, I... that doesn't mean we..."

"You're just not ready."

"Yes..."

Mercifully, Arthur chose that moment to burst into the porta-cabin, Carolyn and Herc in tow. Douglas stepped back and Martin scowled, huffing but keeping his mouth shut. They stole a single sideways glance at one another as they followed the group to Carolyn's desk, avoiding the eyes of the others. They were talking, but Douglas didn't hear a single word until he was settled beside Arthur, fingers resting exactly half a metre away from Martin's.

Herc was in full uniform – new, black, and of a far lower quality than the one he had worn at his former airline. Carolyn was wearing a manic sort of anticipation that brought her to life. Gone was the stress of setting up a company. Now she was burning and deviousness, and Douglas couldn't help but be carried away. He didn't realise at first that he was being addressed until Herc cleared his throat.

"What? Sorry, I was away with the fairies."

"Yes, that's what it looked like," Herc replied. "Don't worry, you haven't missed much."

"So I wasn't just called here as part of Arthur's clever scheme to make Martin and I talk?"

"No, but that would have been brilliant," Arthur said. He knocked some of his mothers papers from the desk in his excitement, but she didn't do more than cluck as she placed a file down between them. Arthur looked between Douglas and Martin. "You did talk though, didn't you?"

"We're fine, Arthur," Martin replied, beating Douglas to the mark.

"Positively giddy," Douglas agreed.

That earned him a small snort, and just like that Douglas couldn't be mad at him. It was detestable, and yet he couldn't escape the flutter of warmth. He caught Martin's eye, and said no more.

"Alright, miserable underlings, I've got a job for you," Carolyn announced as she flicked to the right page in her folder. "The pilot I've hired is coming in this afternoon. He's been through an interview and I've got him on a... let's call it a trial basis."

"What does that have to do with us?" Douglas inquired. His interest was piqued.

"It has to do with you, Douglas, because I need sneaky little spies," Carolyn replied. She patted Arthur's shoulder affectionately. "Today, First Officer Matthews will be coming in here for a talk with me, visiting the flight-deck with Hercules, and then spending some time alone in the flight-deck to get acclimatised on GERTI. However, he won't _be_ alone – the three of you will be hiding on the plane and listening to everything he says and does, and then you will report back to me."

"Wh-why would we do that?" Martin asked, brow furrowing.

"Because I'll pay you twenty pounds each for the service."

"N-no, I mean why do you want us to spy on him?" Martin reiterated. "D-don't you trust him?"

"Of course I don't trust him," Carolyn said blithely. "I've done a little digging-"

" _I_ did a little digging," Herc interrupted. "By which I mean I asked some of my colleagues for gossip."

"Whatever. What's important is that Matthews was recommended to MJN by my delightful ex-husband," Carolyn explained with a dismissive wave of her hand. "Gordon even phoned me to see how I was doing, as if I wouldn't see through that in a second. Apparently Matthews has worked for him for years – Gordon's even one of his references on the CV he _didn't_ show me. Took him off the one he had sent to my office."

"Is that why Dad called you?" Arthur asked. His voice was soft and hollow, but his concern was as thick as it ever was. He nudged back when Douglas bumped him with his elbow, taking the gesture for what it was.

"Why else does he ever call?"

"Oh, I s'pose..."

"My point is, little elves, that he can't be trusted. I don't want someone on board who's going to tell Gordon about every little corner I've cut," Carolyn said. "A new business like this – he could have us inspected at any time."

"Well I think it's a marvellous idea," Douglas remarked. It was like an adventure, and a good distraction from everything else that was going on. "I'm all for it."

Carolyn's shark-like smirk was reward enough for his obedience.

"Wait – h-hold on," Martin exclaimed. "How are we supposed to explain ourselves if we get caught?"

"Don't get caught," Carolyn replied. "And if you do, tell him you're an intern."

"B-but how do you expect to hide three teenagers on a plane that small?"

Martin both regretted, and exulted, in agreeing to Carolyn's plan. On the one hand, it was the right thing to do. On the other, while Arthur was hiding in a cupboard in the galley with one half of a pair of walky-talkies, _he_ was wedged into the flight-deck locker with Douglas. With barely three feet of space on either side, the boys were pressed up against one another. Douglas' arm was balanced on Martin's shoulder, holding the walky-talky up to his mouth.

" _Okay, I hear them coming,"_ Arthur's voice filtered through the speaker. " _This is brilliant, isn't it? Like a spy movie. Over."_

"Spies never seem quite so squished," Douglas replied. "Over."

Martin scowled as he fidgeting and pulled his arm out from where it was wedged, wrapping it around Douglas' waist the moment Douglas shifted close enough that their chests pressed together. A moment later he was gone and Martin's arm was pinned against the back of the locker. He could feel Douglas' breath on his cheek – see his nose in his peripheral vision no matter where he moved.

Douglas obviously needed space – more emotional space than they had _already_ had in the past few weeks. Martin was currently pressed up against him, wishing that they had at least an inch so that he could relieve some of the heat that bubbled under his skin.

That thought was put on hold as footsteps rang out on the other side of the locker door. Carolyn's voice was followed by Herc's, and another gruff male voice that must have belonged to Matthews.

"And this is where you'll be spending most of your time if you make it past the trial period."

"It's a bit small," Matthews replied.

"Well, it's a small plane," Carolyn said tartly. "Nevertheless, she's a difficult plane to fly. You'll need to get properly to grips with her... which is where our Captain comes into play."

"I'm happy to walk you through anything the manual's missed," Herc supplied.

"Yeah, alright," Matthews said. "This isn't my first job."

Footsteps that must have been Carolyn's passed the locker, and then faded away. Martin stopped listening as the seats squeaked – the First Officer's seat creaking where Douglas had swung over it one day – and Herc began to explain all the levers and dials that had been replaced since GERTI had been built. Martin's mind was focused entirely upon the line of his form pressed up against Douglas'.

"This is _ridiculous_ ," Martin hissed when the strain grew too much.

Douglas kept fidgeting and tilting his head to the side, leaving his neck exposed. It was driving Martin mad – he couldn't decide whether he wanted to push closer or kick Douglas in the shin and tell him to behave.

"Don't pretend you're not enjoying it," Douglas whispered. Martin thought he might be flirting but Douglas' eyes were fixed on the three slits in the locker door, where Herc's voice drifted inside. He was smirking to himself, enjoying the thrill of sneaking around. "I'm sure all of your superior piloting knowledge should come in useful. You can tell me whether he's making things up."

"Matthews isn't a _fake_ pilot, h-he's a spy pilot," Martin shot back.

"Details, details," Douglas muttered. "Now, _stay still_. You keep elbowing me in the stomach."

"I'll elbow you somewhere else," Martin grumbled, and he glowered when Douglas' chest hitched against his as he bit back a snort. In spite of himself, Martin felt another rush of heat flood through him. His cheeks burned.

Martin leaned back as far as he could, until his back pressed up against the locker's metal wall. He was still touching Douglas from knee to shoulder in places, swallowing hard to avoid pushing closer, if only to taunt Douglas into doing the same – into reacting how he should instead of peering out into the flight-deck. Douglas could get flustered – Martin had seen it and he loved it. Without permission, his fingers curled in the folds of Douglas' jumper. There wasn't any excuse. In the poor lighting, Martin could only see half of Douglas' face. He saw the way Douglas dropped his chin and scrunched up his nose.

Douglas' hand closed over Martin's. There wasn't room to push him away, so Martin didn't know whether that was what he meant to do. He shifted to stand more comfortably – to relieve the strain in one leg – and his cheek brushed Douglas' chin. His breath faltered even as he muttered under his breath – something unintelligible and irritable. Douglas' fingers tapped against Martin's knuckles.

It was uncomfortably warm inside the locker. Most of Martin's limbs ached as he shifted against Douglas again, careful not to let his thigh brush too close to Douglas'. He felt more than heard Douglas huff, and was caught by surprise and a lump in his throat as the other boy moved to rest his cheek against Martin's – just for a second before he tipped his head back. Martin followed the motion, forehead brushing Douglas' neck as he lowered it to his shoulder, and then looked up.

He pressed his lips to Douglas' throat, not kissing, just pressing there, where it was hot and his lungs were constricted – he half expected Douglas to shrug him off but there wasn't room – not if they wanted to stay hidden. Douglas' hands moved so that he could unfold his arms where they were pinned awkwardly between them, and one went around Martin's middle, pulling him away from the side of the locker and into his body. He dropped his head down and Martin mirrored the motion - uncomfortable, bent at an angle, sweating and close enough that his breath puffed over his lips.

They didn't quite kiss. Douglas' lips touched Martin's and he leaned back. Martin bit his lip as Douglas returned, hair brushing his brow.

Martin huffed and shook his head.

"This is stupid," he muttered.

"I'm still annoyed," Douglas agreed.

"I meant because we're in here, a-and we're supposed to be listening," Martin hissed. His voice echoed, far too loud, and he winced. "We're going to get caught."

"Haven't you been listening?"

"N-no..."

Douglas caught Martin's eye. Then he leaned back as far as he could and cursed under his breath. Both of them held their breath, and Martin heard Matthew's voice. It sounded like he was alone, holding one half of a conversation. Douglas rolled his eyes and tried to reach into his front pocket. Martin beat him to it, hand creeping under his jumper. He didn't know what he was looking for until he found the hard edge of Douglas' Dictaphone.

Douglas took it from him and then listened.

"Yeah, yeah, I know... I know, but... From where I'm standing, everything looks legit," Matthews was saying. "She's done everything by the book on the legal side... I know. Believe me, I was thorough... I wouldn't worry – no, I wouldn't worry... She's only got the one plane and the one pilot, it's not like she's going anywhere..."

"D-do you think he's talking to Carolyn's ex?" Martin whispered.

"Definitely," Douglas replied. "He wants the plane back. If Carolyn's company fails, he'll be able to buy it back."

"Why would he do that?"

"Because he's a mean old man that makes Arthur cry and Carolyn turn off her phone," Douglas answered. He shrugged and his jumper brushed against the exposed skin of Martin's hands. "He'll do anything."

"But if he-"

" _Shhh!"_

Martin clamped his mouth shut and listened to Matthews continue. From the corner of his eye, he saw Douglas press the switch on the Dictaphone.

"It shouldn't take long... Look, she's hiring me... I know, I do... Let's not go mad, alright, let's... let's not do anything drastic..." Matthews groaned and continued. "Look, I'm not doing anything that could bring the plane down while I'm on it... No... because, that's why... Alright... alright, I know... Wait... wait, I said I would and I will... I'll fiddle about a bit... No... well I'm in the flight-deck _now_..."

Douglas nudged Martin's ribs. Martin listened a little harder.

"Hey... yeah, yeah... Listen, all it'll take is a few mistakes... a few indiscretions, things that'll be picked up by the engineers... this plane's falling to pieces as it is, no one's going to suspect a thing if things start going really wrong... No... no..." Matthews stopped talking for a whole minute before continuing. "Alright, I understand... I mean it though. All that needs to happen is for her to fail the next few inspections. Enough things go wrong and she'll lose her licence. They'll have the plane off her... Hold on... Hold on, I've gotta go... No, really."

Footsteps sounded outside the locker and Martin grabbed Douglas' hand, stilling the Dictaphone where it swayed in the air.

Soon, Matthews had vacated the flight-deck with Herc., who had returned in the nick of time.

Minutes later, Douglas pushed the locker door and they tumbled out. They rested on the floor for a moment. Then Martin let out a long breath.

"Wh-what do you think he's going to do?"

"I think he's going to mess around with the control panel and cause problems for Carolyn," Douglas replied.

"B-but that could be dangerous!"

"Which is why it's a good thing we have this," Douglas said. He waggled the Dictaphone and gave Martin a dazzlingly smug smile.

As soon as Matthews was gone from the airfield, Carolyn leapt into action. The first thing she did was send Herc and Arthur back onto GERTI to sweep the area.

"And make sure that he hasn't _already_ been fiddling about with my things," she instructed. "Grab an engineer if needs be."

"If we're lucky, he might have _fixed_ something," Herc remarked dryly as he and Arthur headed towards the door. "It's not as if the ground proximity warning can get any _worse_."

With twenty pounds apiece, Douglas and Martin ducked from the porta-cabin and began the long trudge back through Fitton. Douglas' house was closer to the airfield than Martin's. As his elbow brushed Douglas', and he gazed out at the steadily darkening horizon, Martin couldn't help but wish that the walk was longer.

For a while, there was nothing but comfortable silence between them. Martin itched to discuss the locker, but he knew that it would have been tantamount to taunting Douglas – to asking to be welcomed past the front door and taken to his room.

"It must be nice, knowing what lies ahead," Douglas remarked, from nowhere it seemed. "At least you know that if things go well, you'll have Carolyn's company, you'll have a plane you know, and you'll be thoroughly investigated to ensure you haven't been corrupted by a horrible ex husband."

"Wh-what?" It took a moment for Martin to realise what Douglas meant. "N-no, I... I don't know what lies ahead," he said. He ducked his head and Douglas turned to him, matching his stride and fighting a smile. "A-actually I... I don't think of the future much."

" _Liar_ ," Douglas scoffed. "You've got the whole thing planned out."

" _No,_ I-I've got _targets_. There's no knowing whether I'll meet them – everything else is up in the air. That's a job, Douglas. I-it's not a future," Martin said. He ground to a halt as he scrubbed a hand through his hair. He felt Douglas' eyes on him and found his voice wouldn't stay in his throat. "I-I-I... Maybe you don't get it. Douglas, you... y-you think in certainties-"

"Nonsense-"

"Y-you do, you think in certainties. You're sure that everything's going to be bad, or that it's going to be fine. Y-you date me and you think... y-you're surprised when it might not work out. I-I like that about you, but..." Martin trailed off. Only the withheld, cautious expression on Douglas' face and the way he stiffened kept him talking. "B-but _me_... I try not to think of the future. I-I'm not certain of anything. I-I don't know how to do things and make them stick. I... i-if I was certain, I-I would have fought for you. I-I know there was no need to, but... I never thought ahead."

Douglas nodded slowly. It was impossible to tell what he was thinking. So, Martin kept talking.

"A-a few hours ago, we weren't talking much," Martin said. "Then we agreed to give it time, a-and then I was ready to... t-to... i-it didn't matter that we were arguing. A-all that mattered was that in that moment, we were in a locker-"

"Oh, you liked that did you?"

"D-don't pretend you didn't," Martin retorted. Then he sighed. "See what I mean?"

Douglas nodded again. Then he reached out and took Martin's hand. He turned it over so that he could inspect Martin's knuckles, but Martin suspected that he wasn't seeing them at all. Douglas let out a full-body sigh and wound their fingers together.

"Maybe it's a good idea we spend some time apart then," he said. Martin stiffened and Douglas' eyes widened. He hurried to continue. "I don't mean break up. I mean, it's a good thing I'm going abroad for a bit. I'll go away, I'll phone you all the time, and send you postcards, and then I'll come back and we'll both have rooms in Oxford. Maybe we can share a flat." Douglas paused and met Martin's gaze, a tentative smile plucking the corners of his lips from their thoughtful frown. "Maybe then you'll be certain... I'll come back and we'll be together... and you can have _one_ certainty."

"Do you really believe that?" Martin asked, barely louder than a breath.

"Yes."

"Why?"

Douglas shrugged and stepped closer. He swung their arms where they were joined and shrugged again.

"I..."

"I love you... Douglas. I-I... I love you."

Martin couldn't remember deciding to interrupt. Douglas' lashes actually fluttered as he blinked in surprise and looked between Martin's hand and his face. There was a pinkness in his cheeks and Martin gripped his hand even tighter to ground himself.

"I-I mean... No, that's what I mean. I love you," Martin said. "A-at least, I think I do."

"You _think_ you do?"

"Y-you heard what I just said about certainties," Martin mumbled. Then he swallowed hard and sniffled, scoffing at himself. "A-and I'm _eighteen_. I-I think a lot of things! B-but... I am _certain_ that I think I love you. Y-you're... you're great. Not perfect – a-and I don't want you thinking you're perfect because you're a pain in the arse when you are, b-but... you get the idea."

Holding his breath, Martin waited for Douglas to respond. He could see Douglas' tongue in his cheek, biting down as his brow furrowed. He waited... and waited... and then Douglas let out a sharp breath that might have been a hysterical laugh. He covered his mouth with the back of his hand and shook his head. Then he looked Martin in the eye.

"Martin, I'm _sure_ I love it," he said. "I definitely do."

"A-are you sure?"

"Of course I'm sure," Douglas retorted. "I... I _thought_ I loved a lot of people, I... I love all sorts of things..."

"You fall in love with everything," Martin scoffed. "You 'love' that CD we were listening to, and Shakespeare, and-"

"And all the people I've dated, Martin, but you know what you are that they aren't?"

"Wh-what?"

"My best friend," Douglas replied. He swallowed hard and squeezed Martin's hand. Martin felt his heart skip as Douglas wetted his lips and continued. "Martin, I love you – and I love you because you're more than my boyfriend. You're my best friend. That's how I can be sure that we're going to be fine."

A thousand different things ran through Martin's head. He wanted to kiss Douglas. Instead, he pulled his close and wrapped his arms around him, burying his face in his shoulder and Douglas did the same. This was better than almost kissing in the locker. Martin's chest ached as he clung to Douglas – then they broke apart and Douglas slipped his arm around Martin's shoulders. Grinning to himself, cheeks burning, Martin let Douglas walk him home.

If they spent too long kissing at the gate, nobody mentioned it – except Caitlin, for an hour afterwards, and Martin didn't care.


	15. Chapter 15

Chapter Fifteen

It was shaded under GERTI's wing. She was parked in such a way that when the group hunkered down in her shadow, they couldn't be seen by the rest of the airfield. Douglas crept across the grass with his cargo tucked under his arm – craftily snatched from the porta-cabin while Carolyn was distracted. In the shade, Martin, Arthur, Theresa and her younger brother waited without _waiting_ , looking up only when Douglas cleared his throat and raised the cardboard box above his head.

"I bring you, a _cheese tray_ ," Douglas announced. He tossed passed Martin the box over Arthur's head and dropped down between him and Maxi. "The best a pilot can get... on Carolyn's meagre allowance."

"Did you steal this off Herc?" Martin asked, even as he opened the box and laid the platter out between them.

"Stealing would suggest he had it in the first place."

Martin scoffed.

For a moment the five of them relaxed, stretched their legs, and enjoyed the peaceful sun of the Saturday noon with a mouthful of cheese each. There wouldn't be much quiet left soon, Douglas mused. Soon they would all be rushing about. They should be filling the time with talk but none of them could seem to find the words to say to one another. It felt hollow trying to think of questions to ask that hadn't been answered and information to share that wouldn't become redundant in a few weeks.

Douglas was drawn from his reverie by the sight of Maxi swatting Arthur away from a cheesy in a shiny wrapper.

"So you've only got a few weeks of school left now before you're done?" Douglas inquired, catching Maxi's eyes. "And then you'll be in big school, hmm?"

"Don't call it big school," Maxi replied curtly. He chomped on his cheese and tugged on the collar of his jumper. "It's not big school, it's the same school that you went to."

"And his friends have been making fun of him for calling it big school," Theresa interjected. She placed a hand on Maxi's shoulder and caught Martin's eye – Douglas got the impression that they had discussed it before. "Not that they're grown up at all. They're eleven years old as well."

"And they're stupid."

Douglas thought that if they made fun of Maxi for anything, it would be the fact that he called them stupid. He dutifully held his tongue and tossed the boy another cheese.

"Well, I wouldn't let it worry you," he said. "Something always turns up."

"And if it doesn't, you can have your mum banish them from the town," Arthur chimed in.

"Th-that's not actually how mayors work, Arthur."

"I think it is, Martin."

" _Anyway..._ it's only three weeks now," Theresa interrupted before a real debate could start. She flipped her hair over one shoulder and leaned back to prop herself up on bent arms. "Three weeks and then we're off. I could go _now_ – Martin's already packed my things for me, to military standards of course."

"I wasn't offered any such services," Douglas remarked. As Martin's cheeks flushed and he spluttered, Douglas winked and nudged him with his foot. "I suppose I forgive you. I am _far_ too distracting for you to be folding my clothes." He looked to Theresa. "Did you get the rooms in that hotel or will we be sleeping on the streets the first night?"

"You might be sleeping on the floor, but I got it," Theresa replied.

"B-but you're going to be back by August aren't you?" Martin asked.

Once he had got over the fact of them leaving, his attention had turned towards their exam results. Douglas had successfully put them from his mind, but he couldn't help a prickle of fondness. Martin had practically carried him through his A Levels. He deserved to fret. It wasn't just the weight of his own future that he carried – both belonged to him.

"By the fourteenth," Douglas replied.

"And you'll be there for our interview?" Arthur asked. He looked eagerly between the group and bounced where he sat. "It's just, I've been getting _really_ good at it. Martin's been teaching me how to get past the handshake."

"Oh _really_?" Douglas drawled. "Tell me how that goes."

"Well, I say 'hello, I'm Arthur'."

"N-no, you – a-actually, that's right," Martin started and then stopped, shaking his head. He fidgeted with enthusiasm as he was caught in his own preparations. Douglas was reminded of his own rehearsals, so long ago now, and watched with a smile on his face. He caught Theresa's eye and pressed his lips into a thin line to keep from laughing. "B-but what about when they ask you why you want to be a pilot?"

"Because it sounds like fun," Arthur replied with a grin.

" _No_ , you need a better reason than that," Martin insisted. "Y-you need to sound _professional._ "

"Because my dad was a pilot and my mum runs an airline," Arthur amended.

" _And_?"

"And because I think that I'm ideally suited to the job."

" _Exactly!"_

Douglas settled back to enjoy the mayhem. After a while Maxi chipped in with his own ideas and Theresa was forced to intervene. Arthur and Maxi were prone to squabbles – over silly things, sure, but squabbles nonetheless – so Martin was free to abandon the conversation and sit back, leaning on Douglas' shoulder. His thumbs twiddled and he couldn't quite hide his nerves. Douglas didn't need to _hear_ his concerns.

"You'll be fine," he murmured, dropping his chin so that he could whisper in Martin's ear. "They'll be blown away by how much you know."

"D'you really think so?" Martin muttered in return. "I-I mean, it took me a while to learn how to drive, a-and I think that's only because I annoyed the instructor."

"It's a good thing you want to be a pilot then, and not a rally driver."

Martin huffed, but he didn't argue. He rested his head on Douglas' shoulder. Neither of them had to move until Maxi lobbed a wad of cheese in their direction, and Douglas doubled over, sniggering at the gloop sticking to Martin's chin.

As he watched Douglas sit in the kitchen with his dad, nodding along as Raymond Crieff rambled on about the internal workings of the water heater that had burst the previous day, Martin wished that he had more to offer. He wished that they had somewhere to go – that he had some way of providing a big romantic gesture. He had placed the hat that Douglas had given him over the foot of his bed but that wasn't enough.

"It's a good thing that place still sells the parts," Raymond was saying. "It's an old model."

"I suppose doing it yourself is cheaper than calling a plumber?" Douglas replied, nodding obediently. He was charming as always, and capable of pleasing whoever he spoke to, but Martin could tell that he was bored out of his mind. His head was balanced on his fist, propped up on his elbow.

Martin watched from the other side of the kitchen, rinsing the last layer of washing up liquid from the plates that they had used at lunch. When he finished drying up, he wandered over and patted Douglas' shoulder. He didn't linger, but pulled up a chair and sat beside him, hooking their ankles together.

"So have you two got any plans?" Raymond asked.

"We were just going to... t-to hang around and um..." Martin felt his cheeks warm as his eyes flickered to Douglas'. They didn't have plans at all. In truth, he had expected the house to be empty. He had thought his dad would go to the council's charity event with his mother and Caitlin. He wasn't sure why he had thought that his father would enjoy cupcakes and boring conversation. "Y-you know. It's summer. We haven't got plans."

"We thought we'd go down the park," Douglas intervened just in time. He offered Martin's father a wan smile and Martin was immensely grateful. "I'll be in France soon. I should soak up as much of Fitton as I can before I leave."

"What is it with teenagers and parks?" Raymond muttered, not unkindly. "There's always teenagers in the bloody park. It's not like you're all staging picnics – you see them, lounging on equipment they're too big for."

"I think a picnic sounds about right, actually," Douglas replied.

"I could drive you down the cinema if you like."

"No, no, Mr Crieff, there's no need to worry. I don't want to be a bother," Douglas assured him. He caught Martin's eye and even though Martin knew that he should intervene, he held his tongue. "We were going to do dinner at my house this afternoon."

"As long as you know where you're going to be," Raymond said. "Never hurts to be safe."

It took all of Martin's power not to roll his eyes.

Before his dad could rope them into an impromptu camping trip or something equally ridiculous, Martin corralled Douglas from the house and soon they were walking through Fitton, hand in hand. They had nowhere in particular to go, but Martin didn't care. His mind was somewhat fixed on Douglas' house, of spending the evening alone there with Douglas, and of the wonderfully cautious lingering glances that Douglas had been sending his way each time the subject was broached.

They had a few weeks yet before Douglas left, but there were so few times to spend together. Tonight... and Douglas had taken to saying 'afternoon' so that he didn't have to say 'evening', Martin knew... they hadn't discussed it but there was something broiling in Martin's guts and twisting nicely and a faint frisson of anticipation held him hostage. They _had_ discussed a _proper goodbye._.. there was only one type of goodbye that Martin's mind had been able to conjure up, and it had haunted his dreams for days.

"Your dad seems to like me," Douglas remarked, out of the blue.

It took a moment for Martin to realise that he was meant to answer. There was an expressive lilt in Douglas' tone that he couldn't quite decipher and when he turned, he found Douglas looking at him, wide-eyed and patiently waiting for some kind of reassurance.

"W-well, yeah, he does," Martin said. "Did you think he wouldn't?"

"No." Douglas frowned and then shrugged, doing nothing to hide his trepidation. "Although..."

"He's got no problem with us," Martin said. He tugged Douglas towards the road, and led him across and away from the town centre once the next car had passed. "I-I mean, he wouldn't have a problem with any boy I... that I dated."

"Does he think it's going to end when you go to flight school?"

"He doesn't ask, a-and I don't... i-it's not the sort of thing I discuss with my parents," Martin explained. When Douglas didn't respond in seconds, as he normally would, Martin hastily cleared his throat and tried again. "N-not because I'm ashamed, I just... I-I don't really talk to them about _anything_ like that. We talk but – b-but I don't talk to them about exam nerves, o-or love, or... a-and they don't talk to me about financial problems or trouble at work."

"Is that nice?"

By now, Martin was sure that Douglas was having a second conversation with him, hidden behind his words. He knew that if he waited, it would unravel soon enough.

"I-it means we all stay friends," he said. "They'd tell me if they were ill, o-or if we were in real trouble but... there's some things parents don't need to burden their children with, a-and there are things that children need to do on their own."

"Hmmm..."

"Why? I-I just mean... I never got the impression you talked to your parents about that either," Martin attempted.

Douglas shrugged again and sighed. He turned his attention to the patches of grass and weeds that cropped up along the path where quaint shops were replaced by people's gardens. He tapped his fingers along the top of someone's fence.

"We don't really. We talk, I suppose, but I only tell them things when they ask," Douglas said, eventually, chewing the corner of his lip. "They ask if I've got a girlfriend – I say no. They ask if my exams went well – I say I think so. They ask if I'm looking forward to my month away – I say yes."

"Those are all the truth."

"Yes... and no," Douglas sighed. "Either way, it always leads back to their difficult days at the hospital, or how hard it was for them to get through medical school, and how they didn't have nearly as much free time to waste as I do when they were young. They're very traditional... you know that. I think they're worried I'll do what my brother did and go off on my own and... he's a menace."

"What did he do?" Martin asked. He had never met Douglas' brother and had never had any desire to. He was like the Loch Ness Monster – everyone knew he was around, but Martin had yet to secure any real proof.

Douglas scoffed, and then laughed aloud.

"He didn't _do_ anything... not _really_ ," he said. "He's just not all that well behaved. He went off to university to study a... my mother calls them 'wishy-washy' subjects. Then he transferred to another subject that wasn't any better, and spent most of his four years there drinking and partying and dating and Mum and Dad don't exactly approve. I think they forget that people need to have fun when they're not working. Anyway... he's off working as an intern for some agency – he switches every few months."

"Th-that's good though, isn't it?"

"He travels and he plays and he's frivolous with his money and a little bit loose with the booze," Douglas muttered. "A good drink is a scotch with supper, Dad would say – not those multi-coloured confectionaries that my brother pours down his throat. I don't see the problem really, but... it'll be nice to be out of the house. I can do what I want then."

"G-good..."

They walked in silence for only a moment more. Then Douglas ground to a halt, tugging Martin with him. He stumbled and only Douglas' hand on his arm kept him from tripping into the path of another pedestrian. Martin's breath caught in his throat and his skin warmed when Douglas' fingers brushed the open collar of his shirt.

"Speaking of doing what I want," Douglas drawled. "This afternoon... what do _you_ want?"

"Wh-what do you mean?" Martin stammered. "I thought we were doing dinner."

" _Yes_ , and then after dinner," Douglas said. "My parents are _definitely_ on duty tonight, so... a bit of a snog is a given?"

"Y-yeah, definitely."

"And, perhaps..." Douglas' cheeks turned faintly pink and Martin felt his heart skip. The other boy's nerves seemed to fade after a moment, coming to the surface in the way he fiddled with the buttons of Martin's shirt. "Well, I never did thank you properly for all the help you gave me. I'm sure it's not what Mrs Smith meant when she said I should be grateful for your tutelage, but... and this is the last time we'll be completely alone before..."

Douglas' eyebrow arches as his eyes dropped from Martin's, not quite meeting his gaze. Martin got the message loud and clear. A part of him considered the possible downsides – a part of him that he cursed with all his might. The rest of him practically caught light and he had to fight not to simply fall forwards into Douglas' arms.

"That sounds... th-that sounds..." Martin paused as his brow furrowed. "Y-you are offering what I think you're offering right? B-because I wouldn't want to turn up – i-if you didn't want that – t-to turn up in – o-or not in-"

"Clothes? That _could_ be interesting," Douglas suggested. He let out a nervous laugh and shrugged again – Martin had never seen him shrug quite so much. "Look... we can discuss the particulars later, if you like."

Martin nodded so quickly that words were lost. Their last night together – he was so thrilled that Douglas had been thinking along the same lines as him – the same wistful, mournful lines – that he almost forgot that they were making plans. Then he remembered, and it took all of his power not to simply kiss Douglas there and then, in front of the group of old ladies with push-trolleys that were entering the street from the bungalow that they had stopped in front of.

Douglas had made all sorts of plans for all sorts of people – girls and boys – grand gestures that had only hit the mark on average around forty percent of the time. Any kind of success was a triumph for a teenager, but he wasn't a teen anymore, Douglas reminded himself. He was an adult, and he was in love with another adult, and soon they would both be studying for the rest of their adult life. They were in love and anything that happened inside his room was serious – more serious than a fumble.

And Martin... Martin wasn't the sort to go in for grand gestures. In fact, he didn't seem to be fretting nearly as much as Douglas was. It was unnerving.

Douglas was so nervous that instead of cooking he had ordered a take-away.

Douglas knew that sex didn't necessarily mean anything at all – having two doctors for parents had made it very clear that sex could be frivolous and clinical. But this wasn't a fling. Douglas wanted to be with Martin... for as long as they were friends, and he hoped to god that their friendship would never be shaken. So, it meant a lot.

Mercifully, Martin had seen the take-away, seen the nervous wringing of Douglas' hands, and smiled. He had placed a hand over both Douglas' and while Douglas didn't calm, didn't feel the knotting frisson of heat calm in his centre, he knew that Martin understood. Martin spent most of his time fretting over something or other. He was anxious too but he was so used to anxiety that he enjoyed this anticipation – he said as much.

"I-I've been thinking about you all day," he said, watching Douglas from across the table as they clinked forks against plastic boxes.

"You've been _with_ me all day," Douglas shot back.

"You know what I mean."

"Nerve-wracking then?"

"Better than when I was waiting for our exams," Martin replied, and Douglas understood completely.

This wasn't life and death. It was moving too quickly, perhaps, but he didn't want to wait until he had travelled Europe and moved to Oxford before he got a chance to wrap his arms around Martin properly and find out just what it felt like not to stop when kissing didn't satiate the burn under his skin.

Knowing Martin, he would something ridiculous and fall out of bed. Douglas hoped he did. It would be good to laugh – to take some of the weight from the moment. _That_ was what _Douglas_ had been thinking of all day.

For once, Douglas wished that he could think less. It worked for Arthur.

After a while, Martin cleared his throat.

"I-I brought-"

"I've got stuff," Douglas interrupted, so quickly that he winced. He pushed a hand through his hair and wished that he were older and knew what to say that didn't sound silly to his own ears. "I mean... my parents expect a lot, but they're not _invasive_. They don't search my drawers or anything, so I've... I've got stuff... in my room... if you want to still..."

"I do," Martin said, just as quickly. He nodded sincerely and reached across the table, knocking his glass askew.

Douglas caught it before the water could do more than slosh and Martin reached out to take his hand. He held it a moment before clearing his throat again – then again, and reaching into his pocket for his phone. He scrolled through it, going red in the face with every word that he said.

"I-I thought that – w-well I thought that maybe I'm not romantic enough, s-so," Martin stammered to a pause and then pushed onwards, spurred on Douglas assumed by whatever strange contortion his face had pulled into. "I-I thought about what I could do, a-and I thought – I don't have enough money to... a-and I don't know how... b-but I thought about _you_ , and what you like, a-and I thought you like poetry and all that sappy stuff-"

Douglas scoffed, genuinely brightening right in his centre near his heart. Then he smiled apologetically and nodded. Martin continued with his phone under his nose.

"S-so, I thought maybe I could – w-well I couldn't memorise it in the time I had, b-but-" Martin took a deep breath and Douglas realised that he was going to recite something – probably poetry that Douglas himself had known by heart since he was ten. The short lines and the shape of poetry on the page had appealed to him – something that Martin had learned when they were revising, and now – now Martin took another deep breath and bowled onwards. "Let-me-not-to-the-marriage-"

" _Martin_!"

"Wh-what?" Martin ground to a halt, going red in the face. "Wh-what have I done?"

"Nothing," Douglas assured him. He rose up and leaned across the table, placing a hand on either side of Martin's face so that he could kiss him – softly and thoroughly. "You haven't done anything wrong. Really. I love the thought."

"Then what-"

"There are better things we could be doing with the time it would take for you to recite that," Douglas said.

Martin's eyebrows rose. Then his eyes widened and his mouth shifted into a 'oh'. While he cheeks darkened they also pinched as something near to a smirk crept across his expression. Martin looked Douglas dead in the eye and nodded.

"O-oh, right..."

That was that. Before Douglas was entirely sure what had happened, they were in his room. He recalled kicking the door shut with his heel. Then he was lying on his side on top of his covers, Martin pressed up against him, mirroring his position with his arm trapped underneath Douglas' cheek where he had wrapped it around his shoulder to lengthen their last kiss. His own hand was under Martin's shirt, sweating and pressing lines into Martin's stomach, trying to creep up only to be impeded by the press of his own chest.

It was unbearably warm. Douglas remedied that by pulling his jumper off over his head. The task took twice as long when Martin tried to do the same thing, elbowing Douglas in his attempt to unbutton his shirt. When Douglas' lips weren't pressed so tightly they ached to Martin's own, it was because they were slipping past the curve of his neck or because Martin's tongue had got in the way in his eagerness.

Every now and then faint tremors ran through Douglas' bones. He ignored them and wrapped his arms more tightly around the other boy. It was easy to do when all that he could hear, between the brush of his covers under his ear, were Martin's low 'oomphs'.

Heat rushed through him when he felt hands tugging at his belt – knuckles scuffing the soft flesh there. Douglas was nearly dizzied by it.

" _What the Hell is going on?_ "

Ice flooded through him so quickly Douglas choked. The solid warmth of Martin was gone in seconds as Douglas fell back, head hitting the headboard as he scrambled onto his elbows. From the corner of his eye, he saw Martin frozen and wide-eyed, barely breathing through his panic.

Douglas' mouth flapped as he stared at his mother, standing in the doorway with her hand pressed over her forehead. She was still dressed for work, coat pulled from one shoulder as if she had just come home. He had never seen so many lines on her face.

"M-Mum!" Douglas found what little of his voice was left. "What are you-"

"I can't cut people up when I've got a migraine – they sent me home," Alice muttered, momentarily distracted. The next second her chest was heaving as she stepped back against the doorframe, pointing into the hall as her eyes fixed on Martin. "Young man, I want you out of my house."

Douglas couldn't move. His head snapped towards Martin and he felt a rush of - of something hot and sweet and proud at the sight of Martin's brow dipping and his red-faced terror shifting into indignation.

"B-but I haven't done-"

" _OUT_ of my house," Alice snapped, and there was no arguing with her.

Douglas didn't move. He felt Martin's hand slip over his – a comforting gesture that lasted no more than a second. Then Martin was on his feet, plucking his jumper from the floor and trudging across the room. He disappeared from sight and into the hall. Douglas let out a short breath – then Martin was back, argumentative and flushed and visibly trembling.

"W-we're both _legally_ adults, a-and we weren't doing anything wrong," Martin stammered.

Douglas could only stare, pulling his knee up to his chest. His mother's expression darkened.

"Young man-"

"Yes, yes, I heard," Martin muttered, throwing his hands up in sarcastic surrender. Douglas could have kissed him, even though Martin had done the same a thousand times when they were studying and every time before it had made him want to strangle him. "I'm going."

Martin did just that. Douglas heard the front door slam – an oddity, as Martin was always careful to ensure that doors didn't bounce off the latch.

The moment the echo stopped, Alice turned back to Douglas. She took a deep breath and tried not to scowl, but Douglas could see through it easily. Placing a hand over her forehead, she took another deep breath and stepped into the hall – still visible from his bed.

"When your father gets home, we're all going to sit down and have a talk," she said. "I'm not mad... I'm not... I'm not mad, Douglas, but... When your father gets home."

Martin didn't hear from Douglas that night. He spent every moonlit hour turning his phone over in his hand, wondering whether he should call – waiting for it to ring or light up. When he arrived home that evening, still bristling with anger, his mother had fussed and asked him what was wrong and his dad had rested a hand on his shoulder. He only asked _one_ question.

"Are you and that lad alright?"

" _We_ are," Martin grumbled. "I don't know if _he_ is."

Without a single hour's sleep, Martin met the morning with nothing but irritation. He snapped at Caitlin and to his relief, she seemed thrilled at the chance to spar, if only verbally. She had only stopped when Martin's eyes began to burn, and then she was uncomfortably apologetic. That didn't stop her from calling him names, but Martin could accept that.

His phone didn't ring all day.

Martin wandered over to the airfield, but neither Douglas nor Arthur were there. Carolyn informed him that Arthur had gone on a date with Tiffy and that she hadn't heard from Douglas – to his surprise, she asked whether anything had happened. He didn't tell her a thing. He didn't want sympathy.

Theresa would have good advice. For that reason exactly, Martin didn't go to her. He _did_ however get a text from her around noon asking if something had happened. He replied to ask whether she had heard anything from Douglas, and all that she could say was that she had received a cryptic phone-call about twenty minutes beforehand.

It wasn't until seven in the evening, long before the sun went down, that he heard Martin text alert – one, two, then a third time in quick succession. He was lying on his bed, shovelling biscuits his mother had baked in a fit of sympathy into his mouth. The moment he saw Douglas' name on the screen, his heart leapt.

It sank the instant he saw the messages.

 _They're packing me off to stay with my brother for a few weeks._

 _He's going to drive me to the airport so that I can meet Theresa._

 _Sorry Martin. Love you. XXX_

Instead of responding, Martin shoved his feet into his trainers and sprinted downstairs – tumbling down the last few steps and colliding painfully with the front door. He didn't answer his dad's call to make sure he was alright.

The next he knew he was barrelling down Douglas' street, chest heaving, and the sun was a little closer to the horizon than it had been.

A car Martin didn't recognise was parked in front of Douglas' house, boot open, and Douglas was hoisting a case inside with the aid of a man who appeared to be around Herc's age – with the same round face and darker hair than Douglas, and far better dressed. The man, who Martin assumed was Douglas' brother, looked up and clocked him, and then leant down to mutter something in Douglas' ear. His hand touched Douglas' shoulder as Douglas' head darted up and his mouth fell open.

Martin didn't bother waiting. He slowed from a sprint to a jog as he came to Douglas' side, just as his brother wandered around to the front of the car. It was only then that Martin saw Douglas' mother standing on the doorstep, metres away from them. Douglas stammered – like he never did – and she rolled her eyes as he looked between them. With an audible huff, she ducked inside.

Martin refused to be grateful.

"You weren't supposed to come, Martin," Douglas sighed, far too faintly. "That was the point in me texting you. I thought you weren't replying."

"Wh-why are you going with your brother?" Martin demanded. There was so little space between them and he could feel himself shrinking. It wasn't fair.

Douglas shrugged helplessly, hands rising into the air.

"Because I-"

"I-if things are going well, come and stay with me," Martin insisted. His eyes darted towards the house and he swallowed a lump in his throat. He wanted to move closer but Douglas was wringing his hands together, nervous, and not nearly angry enough. "I-I've got room – I've got a whole room. Have my room. I-I'll sleep on the floor – you can stay as long as you like-"

"That wouldn't go down well," Douglas sighed.

"Wh-who cares?" Martin exclaimed. "You're an adult – y-you're not a child. You can go where you like, a-and do what you want-"

"I'm an adult who relies on them for _everything_ ," Douglas said, so quietly that Martin almost didn't hear. Douglas dropped his chin and took a deep breath. He didn't look back towards the house. "They're not mad at me-"

"O-oh let me guess, they're just disappointed?"

"Exactly," Douglas replied. There was no fight in him at all. It made Martin's heart ache. "They care, Martin – they're paying for me to go to medical school, and to go travelling. A bit of space – I-I need a bit of space, they think. I'm not sure what they think actually... I don't want to start something-"

"B-but-"

"No buts, Martin," Douglas cut him off. His hand touched Martin's chest for only a moment before he pulled back. "I love you. When we're in Oxford... we can get a flat together, or... we'll work something out. They'll understand better then, because I won't... I won't be living under their roof. I could... I could get a job and start paying my own way. But now... I need them now, and I can't... they're not stopping me talking to you-"

"I'd like to see them try!"

Something that might have been a laugh pulled one corner of Douglas' lips taut. Then he sniffled and shook his head.

"I don't want any trouble," he said. Then he took a deep breath and practically welled up. "And I'll see you in a month-ish, when I pick up my results. I'll call you – they're still going to pay for international roaming so-"

"S-so we can talk but you can't..." Martin trailed off and bit his cheek to stop from cursing aloud. "This is ridiculous, Douglas!"

"Martin, this is what's happening. I'm going to stay with my brother, then I'm going with Theresa," Douglas said. His voice gained some weight, but he didn't move. He barely breathed. "Please don't make things difficult for me. I need my parents."

He didn't want them to be angry with him. Martin had known Douglas long enough to know that he couldn't bear the moments when his parents stopped coddling him and treating him like their star child – he craved it as much as he hated it. If that weren't the case, he would have asked for help at some point in the _years_ that he was struggling through his studies.

As Martin stared, Douglas stared back – eyes glistening. All of a sudden, like a punch to the gut, Martin realised that it was actually happening. He had thought they'd have weeks yet – he hadn't worked out how to say goodbye. Just like that, his breath burned like knives in his lungs and his eyes welled up. Martin's hand flew to his own chest as if to keep the air inside from slipping away.

"B-but you _can't_ go yet..."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't say you're sorry," Martin said. "Stand up for yourself."

"It's not that _easy_."

There was a lot that Martin could have said to that. Instead, he wrapped his arms around himself. Then he shook his head and bridge the space between them. Douglas folded against him without a fight, pulling him so close that he was almost crushed by the force of it. He didn't try to kiss him. He didn't want to cause any more problems. Martin didn't say another word. He simply ran his hand up and down Douglas' back and pressed his nose against his cheek.

He didn't speak as Douglas climbed inside his brother's car. He didn't speak when said brother clapped his shoulder and told him to keep his chin up – as if they had met before. He watched as the car trundled away, rumbling in a way that his dad would have winced at.

Then Martin shot the Richardson house a caustic glare and walked home, alone and realising that, like him, Douglas had forgotten to grab his coat before leaving.


	16. Chapter 16

Chapter Sixteen

Keeping in touch, Martin discovered, was harder than it sounded. When he wasn't otherwise occupied, he was kept busy by the voice in his head that said that Douglas would be inconvenienced if he called – worse still, that Douglas hadn't called first, and might not be planning to at all.

Martin couldn't help replaying in his mind, when he was at home, or with Theresa and Arthur, the last moments they had been alone together. He had barely been thinking at all. He had been drowning in the heat of it all – in the aching longing to get closer, touch more, climb higher and higher until... Martin's every sense had been filled with Douglas and he had craved it as if reaching completion would right every wrong in the world.

It wouldn't, obviously, but he had been so sure in that moment that Douglas felt as strongly as he did – that even if he had no idea where they were going, he wanted to find out.

And then Mrs Richardson had walked in.

Martin spent an entire Thursday with his head in his hands, refusing to call Douglas out of guilt. He had been so rude to Douglas' mother. Maybe, if he had been polite, she might have liked him. She _had_ liked him when she had thought he was nothing more than a friend. Mr and Mrs – Dr and Dr Richardson, Martin supposed – had even approved of his ambition and his nerve. Maybe, if he hadn't challenged her, she might have come around to the idea of her son dating another boy.

Love was love, after all. It would win in the end.

In the end, it was neither Douglas nor Martin who made the first call. It came about as a result of two factors.

The first was Theresa getting into a taxi that would take her to London – she would stay in a hotel overnight and then meet Douglas at the airport the next day. While the mayor and Maxi waved her off from the pavement, Martin leaned into the open window.

"I don't know what I'm going to do without you," he sniffed, blinking back a burning that he had promised himself he wouldn't allow. "A whole year and then..."

"And then off to Cambridge, if they'll have me," Theresa replied. "God, can you imagine me a politician?"

"I-I can actually."

"Well, yes, but I won't enjoy it," she said. Then she fixed Martin with a stern glare, pointed finger coming to rest underneath his chin. "You have to sort things out, the two of you."

Martin didn't need to ask what she meant.

"I'm trying – I-I really am."

"Try harder, Martin. I know you. You always need a little push but you're too old to expect to be pushed anymore," Theresa cut him off. "I'm going to look after Douglas this month, but after that the two of you are on your own. You won't even get a nudge."

"It's not that easy," Martin tried to argue.

"It's exactly that easy. If you really care for him like I know you do, you'll make sure that he knows it," Theresa sighed and slumped, offering no more than a half-hearted shrug. "That boy might seem like he knows what he's doing, but there's a difference between being talented and knowing how to make your way in life. Maybe he'll get by impressing people, but one day someone won't be impressed. That's when he'll need you to keep him grounded."

"A-and it's all about him, is it?" Martin shot back. "My feelings don't matter?"

The acid on his tongue was something Martin didn't want. He had played it over so many times in his head – tried to imagine what it would be like if _his_ mother had walked in on them undressing each other. Of course, his mother would have twittered and blushed and left them alone. Their intimacy wouldn't have been so completely shattered.

Still... Douglas could have stood up for him. He could have stood up for himself. It broke Martin's heart to see him so defeated.

Theresa's eyes were wide and daunting, charged with sympathy. They were as brown as Douglas' and Martin felt his resolve slipping.

"Of course your feelings matter," she said. "But Martin... it's not a competition."

With that, the window rolled up and the taxi pulled away. Martin waved until the lights were out of sight, before sighing and making his way along the street.

She was right. And... if Douglas hadn't said _something_ to his parents – if there hadn't been a fight or a row in which he had defended their relationship, he wouldn't have been sent away. Would he?

The second factor was far simpler. He and Arthur had been hanging out, Martin reading a book, Arthur designing some travesty of a poster on the laptop's built in paint function, when Arthur had seemingly remembered that he had something to say.

"You should call Douglas."

"I know."

"No, I mean _you_ should call _him_ ," Arthur reiterated. "It's just, he's never sure when it's a good time to call, and his brother's keeping him busy, and he doesn't want to be a bother, but he's online all the time so if you wanted to video message or something, that would work."

Martin was so stunned he dropped his book.

"Y-you've been walking to Douglas?"

"Yeah, 'course I have," Arthur replied. "You two are my best friends. He doesn't want to complain – well, he does. Douglas loves to complain – but, not about stuff like this that matters. You know that."

Martin did know that, so when the sun dropped beneath the horizon, he climbed into bed and pulled his laptop onto his knees, and then opened a window to call Douglas. Tomorrow he would be in France. This was their last chance.

His heart leapt when Douglas' face filled the screen.

"Martin!"

"Douglas!" Martin exclaimed. "I wasn't sure you'd be up."

"I couldn't sleep," Douglas replied. He didn't bother explaining himself. "I know I should have called-"

"No, I should have," Martin interrupted. He was suddenly feeling noble, with the laptop's edges digging into his palms. "I-I caused all that trouble for you and I kicked up a fuss and it wasn't-"

"It wasn't your fault."

"It wasn't right of me t-to talk to your Mum like that," Martin said. "It doesn't matter whose fault it was, I... I-I shouldn't have upset things inside your own home. And I shouldn't have acted like you were doing something wrong, b-because I know what it's like, having to... having to tell your parents."

"Now so do I," Douglas sighed. His face was soft and lit warmly by the glow of his computer.

Martin wished he was nearer.

"How'd they take it?" he asked. "Sorry. I forgot before."

"Well, they're not happy about it but they still love me."

"Th-that's not good enough."

"I'll take what I can get."

"S-still-"

"I've missed you." Douglas' voice was so soft that Martin wasn't sure he'd heard it at first. Then Douglas smiled and his eyes darted in a square motion, as if he were scanning Martin's face in his own screen. "I've missed being able to talk to you."

"I-I think you've heard all I have to say," Martin murmured as his chest glowed.

"You'd be surprised," Douglas replied just as softly.

As he stared at the screen, conscious of how Douglas was staring back, Martin took in the shadowed backdrop. He could make out a headboard and the lower half of a shelf over Douglas' head.

"So you're still at your brother's then?"

"Until tomorrow."

"A-are you alright?"

"He's looking after me," Douglas replied. "Had a laugh over us getting caught, but it's all in good faith. He's the same... which is... I had no idea. Well, I _did¸_ even if our parents don't know yet either –it was more of a _feeling_. You know, like... he gets flirty with the waiter no matter whether they're a he or a she or somewhere between. I should have noticed really."

"He's got a boyfriend?" Martin asked.

"Not since last June," Douglas snorted. "But he and his girlfriend have been helping me drown my sorrows." Martin's face must have done something as Douglas' eyes widened and he raised his hands in surrender. "Nothing bad – I haven't been bingeing. I swear. They've been taking me down the pub for quiz nights. He's not as cool as he thinks he is."

Martin snorted and shook his head.

"What about you?" Douglas asked.

"I-I've missed you too."

"Not what I meant."

"I know," Martin said. "When's your flight?"

"Nine twenty," Douglas replied. "And I'm not talking _this-"_ Douglas tapped his keyboard. "So you'll have to make do with regular phone calls. I've written to my pen-pals, and they've said Theresa and I can have their sofas when we're in town so... whenever you want to talk, I'll be there."

"M-me too."

Douglas changed the subject and Martin felt for a moment like he'd never been gone. Nevertheless, he couldn't take his eyes from the screen. He couldn't help but wonder how much his boyfriend's face would change in the moth that he couldn't see his face.

Douglas lay awake that night, staring at the ceiling and wishing he lived in a novel – this sort of thing was easily sorted out when committed to writing.

In the morning, his parents called, wishing him luck as they bustled around in the rush to get to work. Douglas listened and replied with lacklustre, pleased when he could get in his brother's car and avoid any other well-wishers.

He saved a text from Martin, telling him to be careful and citing various international laws. It was sentimental, but still.

At the airport, Theresa ran across the lobby and threw her arms around him. He hugged back, realising only then how much he had missed home – not just Martin, but Arthur and Theresa as well, and the peaceful racket of Fitton airfield. He hadn't even said goodbye to Carolyn. Unless Arthur had passed on a message, she would be wondering where her favourite 'intern' had got to.

"Oh, Douglas," Theresa exclaimed once she was back on her feet. "You never do things by halves do you."

"Where would be the fun in that?"

"You talked to Martin?"

"I did," Douglas replied. To his relief, Theresa didn't ask him to elaborate. Instead, she turned him towards the check-in desk and allowed him to carry the conversation as he liked. "So, Paris – the city of many things. Have you been before?"

"I've been all over the place," Theresa said. "And you? Have you ever visited any of your pen-pals or is this a new experience?"

"I've been to some posh hotels with my parents," Douglas said. "But... no, I've never met any of them. We swap things in the post all the time though."

"Ah, no posh hotels where we're going," Theresa said. "Only very poorly kept ones."

She slipped her arm through Douglas', jostling him slightly with her hefty rucksack. It was the sort one took camping. Douglas' wasn't stuffed nearly as full, and he felt a prickle of concern as to his survival. It was gone in seconds, replaced by an assuredness that he would muddle through. This was what he was good at – the real world, without exams or deadlines. Reading and writing might have been a struggle, but once foreign languages had been placed in his head, they refused to budge – like the words of a play.

They passed through check-in and security without a lick of trouble. On the way to the gate, they passed at least six pilots, and more stewards of all outward genders, some older but just as many nearer their thirties. Douglas entertained himself by trying to imagine what Martin would look like in a few years, and which uniforms would suit him best. Martin would enjoy the stripes on his sleeve.

He did the same when the Captain delivered the announcement before take-off.

Then they were in the air, Theresa grinning with excitement, and Douglas felt for the first time in weeks as if he could breathe.

While his dad made repairs to the underside of his van, Martin flicked through the sheets of paper that made up the accounts. It had become their routine over the years – even more so now that all Martin had to look forward to was his interview. Even the airfield wasn't as fun without Douglas trying to break all the safety protocol. He refused to wear day-glow vests.

Even though they had promised to talk, over the past week it had been difficult to find a time when both he and Douglas were available. When they did, the service was often so patchy that they lost half the conversation.

Mid-week was good. Martin spent the day with Arthur, sitting in the flight-deck while Herc lectured them on what to expect and how to act. Martin dutifully kept his mouth shut and didn't tell Herc that he knew it all already. The man seemed to thrilled to have a captive audience.

Before he left, Carolyn caught him by the arm and handed him a slip of card. Martin glanced at it in surprise and read the word 'MJN' along with about a dozen others.

"The company contact details," Carolyn explained.

"Wh-what for?" Martin replied. "I already know where you are."

Carolyn rolled her eyes and sighed, world weary.

"Stick it in your CV," she said. "Give yourself a leg up when it comes to your interviews."

"I-I don't know what to say," Martin stammered and gaped, and suddenly the card seemed to weigh as much as gold.

"Don't say I never do anything for you," Carolyn retorted.

"Th-thank you."

"That's enough now," Carolyn stopped Martin before he could be tempted to pull her into a hug.

It was with a renewed confidence that Martin had joined his dad out on a job, to the house of a little old lady whose boiler had broken down. On the way home they had hit a pothole, which had led to the current repairs.

"How're the numbers doing?" Raymond asked, voice booming from beneath the van. Martin had a clear view of his feet and his knees.

"Still numerical," Martin replied, earning a chuckle. "B-bit everything else looks fine."

"Put some aside for the MOT would you?"

"Alright."

They worked in silence, mostly. It wasn't until Wendy slipped into the garage that Martin realised how long they had been at it. She had a pile of laundry over one arm.

"Oh, Martin, I wish you'd spend some time outside in the sun," she said, almost immediately. "It isn't healthy staying cooped up in here all day."

"I'm making myself useful," Martin replied, raising the papers for her to see.

His mother tutted and shook her head, but didn't scold him.

"I'm very proud of how grown up you are," she said. "Don't forget to be young as well." With a smile, Wendy turned to make her exit. She nudged Raymond's foot as she passed. "Don't stay under there too long, dear."

It wasn't until she reached the door that she ground to a halt and whirled around with an 'oh'.

"Now, Martin, I was fetching our laundry and I found _this_ ," She said. "It's not yours or Simon's."

Martin watched her pull a green hand-knitted jumper from the pile.

"Oh, um – that's Douglas'."

"I thought it might be," Wendy replied. "Shall I pop it round his parents' house? I'm heading out anyway in a bit – we need prizes for the raffle."

"No!" Martin hastily lowered his voice as his dad slid out from beneath the van and raised an eyebrow. "I-I mean, I'll look after it. He's not around and the moment a-and his parents are busy – busy busy jobs, you know."

"Aright then, here you go."

Once Wendy was gone, Martin folded the jumper in his lap and tried not to card his fingers through the wool. He was struck by the memory of what it felt like when Douglas was in it. His dad brush past him and he jumped.

"Had a row, have you?"

"N-no, no... nothing like that," Martin explained. Reluctantly, he put the jumper aside. "Dad... can I ask you something?"

"I'd have a job trying to stop you," Raymond replied. Seeing the look on Martin's face, he took a strengthening breath and settled back against his work bench. "Go on then. What is it?"

"It's just... you found out about me and Douglas, a-and you were fine with it," Martin started.

"As long as you're happy, we said."

"Right, b-but Douglas' parents-"

"Oh, I see," Raymond sighed. "Well, you're not stupid, Martin. You knew that not everyone's okay with it. Fools if they aren't, but-"

"It's not just that though," Martin interrupted. "It's like they don't want him to be happy at all. They're always pushing him – h-he was even scared to admit needing a tutor."

"What's the point here, son?"

"H-how can some people love their child so much a-and others..."

Raymond sighed again and rubbed his oily hands together. He touched the back of his neck and then made a motion that was halfway between a shrug and throwing his hands up in surrender.

"What you have to understand, son, is that it's not a matter of love," he said. "From what I can tell, Douglas' parents – well, they're doctors, busy people – but they're from a very different background than us."

"That's no excuse," Martin exclaimed.

"I know it's not, I'm just saying. Where you're from sometimes changes _how_ you love," Raymond continued. "Your mum and I, we want you to follow your dreams – but we know that if things go wrong, we can muddle through, and so can you. That's how we've always done it – odd jobs and just keep going 'til you get there."

"S-so what?"

"So those doctors – I'm sure they love their son very much – probably too much. Believe me, I love our Simon, but if that boy gets any more love he'll forget how to function. Way Douglas acts, I reckon his parents want his life to be perfect," Raymond said. "And they're not like us. They can't hop from one job to another if things get choppy. Medicine – it's full of risks, son – physical risks, financial risks, lawsuits... If they don't push that boy, he might slip up and ruin his whole life and they don't want that."

"What's that got to do with me and Douglas?" Martin demanded. "Th-they can say they're not prejudiced all they like, but it doesn't make it true if their own son-"

"Martin, we live in a world where being anything but straight and happy in your own body can put you in a lot of danger," Raymond said, a note of finality in his tone. The steadiness of his gaze pinned Martin in place. "They want that boy's life to be safe and successful. I doubt they want him making more trouble for himself, even if they _are_ alright with everyone else being whoever they want to be."

"Th-that doesn't make it right," Martin muttered.

"No, it doesn't."

With nothing else to say, Raymond returned to the van. Martin watched him for a moment. Then he was struck by a flash of resolve. Hopping to his feet, he snatched up Douglas' jumper and marched from the garage.

He didn't stop until he reached the Richardson house. He had lied to his mother. It was the weekend. He knew they'd be in. He had memorised the days that he and Douglas could spend alone there.

It was Clarke Richardson that answered the door. He blinked down at Martin in surprise, newspaper in one hand while the other knotted the belt of his dressing gown. He looked like he hadn't got out of bed all day.

"Oh, hello."

"I brought this back," Martin said, thrusting the jumper into the air between them. It was cautiously received. "Douglas left it at mine."

"Well, thank you," Clarke replied, still bewildered. "You needn't have gone to the trouble."

"Do you hate me?"

Martin's hands clenched at his sides.

"Hate you?" Clarke stammered. "Of course I don't hate you, lad."

"B-but if I'd been a girl I wouldn't have been thrown out?" Martin retorted. "Douglas wouldn't have been sent away?"

At that, Clarke looked abashed, eyes flickering down to his slippers.

"It's not about that-"

"Th-then what is it?" Martin demanded. "I need to know."

"Dougie doesn't need all this distraction and confusion in his life at the moment."

"He's not confused," Martin argued. "I-I mean, he is – about some things. He doesn't know how planes stay up – b-but not about _this_. Not about _us_. I wasn't the first boy and I... I hope I'm the last, b-but I might not be."

Clarke pressed his fingers over his eyes, just as Douglas did, sometimes.

"This matter is between Dougie and I, and between Dougie and yourself," he said. "It's not for you and I to discuss my son over the doorstep when he's not here. Now... if you'll excuse me?"

To his credit, he didn't just shut the door. He waited for Martin to nod and take a step back – then inexplicably smile a strain smile as if they were all still friends. Then he shut the door and Martin was left alone.

It took so long for Douglas to find a signal in the hostel that Theresa was already asleep. Tomorrow he would be leaving France and spending the night with one of his pen-pals – who he had promised to supply with a fair amount of brie. It might be a while before they talked again.

When he finally connected, Douglas couldn't help the grin that split his lips.

" _Douglas? Is that you? Can you hear me? I can't-"_

"I'm here, Martin."

" _Douglas!"_

"Hello, Martin."

For a moment, neither of them seemed to know what to say. Then they both spoke at once. Douglas broke off with a soft chuckle.

" _Sorry – s-sorry,_ " Martin stammered, voice rising and falling as the signal wavered. " _Where are you_?"

"On the French border," Douglas replied. "Never mind that. How are you?"

" _M-me? I'm... I'm fine,"_ Martin answered, a little too quickly. Just as Douglas was about to ask him what was wrong, Martin continued. " _I um... Douglas, I might have done something a bit... well, a bit-"_

"What did you do?"

" _I spoke to your dad a little bit._ "

Douglas' heart dropped into his stomach. His fingers flexed around his phone and he heard Martin fidgeting along the line.

"Martin..."

" _I know what you're thinking-"_

"What did you say?" Douglas asked, terror pricking at his tongue. "Martin – what happened?"

" _Nothing happen, I-I swear-"_

"If you've made things worse-"

" _I haven't-_ "

"Martin, I know what happens when you talk to people-"

" _It's fine, Douglas!"_ This time, Martin's voice was hard and shrill, turning the line into a rush of crackles. As they faded, Douglas bit back a burning pit of fear.

"Martin-"

" _I just told you, it's fine. I-I spoke to him, a-and he seemed alright with me – I gave him a jumper you left at mine, that's all. Maybe I got testy, b-but I didn't cause any trouble."_ Martin fell silent for only a second, then his voice was clear in Douglas' ear. _"And it's great to know how little faith you have in me. What? Did you think I was going to throw a brick through the window? Call him names?"_

Just like that, Douglas was flooded with a different kind of cold. He slumped against his creaking futon.

"No, Martin-"

" _Then what?"_

"Things are difficult. It's not you. I'm just worried," Douglas insisted.

" _I know-_ "

"I'm sorry-"

" _No, I'm sorry,"_ Martin said. _"I shouldn't have interfered."_

"No, you shouldn't," Douglas agreed. Then he sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. If he closed his eyes he could imagine that it was just the two of them. "But I suppose it doesn't matter. You didn't answer my question. How _are_ you?"

" _Same as ever really_."

Douglas snorted.

"Ready for your interview?"

" _I-it couldn't come sooner."_

Stifling a laugh at Martin's groan of agitation, Douglas settled back and enjoyed the peace and quiet. He was exhausted – had been walking around all day at Theresa's heels – but Martin didn't need to know that.


	17. Chapter 17

Chapter Seventeen

By the time Douglas' month was up, he felt like a changed man. Between his own schemes and Theresa's diplomacy, they had survived a flying tour of Europe – surfing the sofas of anyone willing to take them. Over the course of the next year, Theresa would return to each country and spend time in the lesser visited areas, but for now they were tourists. They even spent an extra week in Italy, when they should have been moving on – Theresa drawn in by the heat, Douglas by the market stalls in the big cities.

He hadn't wanted to spend much, but he had bought Carolyn some soft and beautiful scarves, Arthur some snow globes declaring their city of origin in funny fonts, and his parents some artistic postcards. It wasn't until they passed through Florence that Douglas found something for Martin – something to show he cared – and olive branch.

It was while he had been buying Herc an apron designed to look like the front of the Statue of David – knowing Herc's love of fine art, but also that he would roll his eyes at the stone genitalia depicted – that he had found it. Theresa was eying up the books – _"Look, Douglas. My Italian's not bad. It might be useful one day" –_ and Douglas was only half listening. His eyes landed on a small wooden replica of Da Vinci's flying machine – one of them, at least. Douglas' heart stopped.

Martin's room was full of all manner of aircraft, but he had nothing like this. This was the beginning – the creation of a man who hadn't known about gravity, but knew what it was to fly – a modern Daedalus.

The model was bought and bagged before Douglas had time to think.

Now he was faced with saying goodbye to Theresa after a month of constant companionship. They were so alike at times that sometimes they didn't even need to speak. But, she was better, Douglas thought. Calmer, smoother, infinitely more capable and confident in her abilities even if she wasn't good at everything.

He would miss her, he thought as she saw him to the airport.

"You take care of yourself," Theresa instructed when she pulled out of a hug. "And behave when you get to security. Make sure you declare everything you've hidden in that bag and don't make any silly jokes."

"Anyone would think you didn't know me at all," Douglas replied with a smirk as he hoisted his bag more securely over his shoulder.

"It's one thing carrying things over the border on foot, but you can't smuggle things onto the plane."

"Don't say smuggling so loud _inside_ the airport!"

"Oh, I'm only playing," Theresa scoffed. She patted his arm and pulled him in again. "Come here, you."

Douglas couldn't help but sniff slightly when they separated. He patted Theresa's shoulder one last time, and smiled.

"If you need anything-"

"I am perfectly capable, as you well know, Douglas Richardson," Theresa replied. "Say hello to Martin for me."

"I will," Douglas promised. He glanced down at his watch, eager to avoid becoming too emotional. "Look at that. I should be going."

"You've got your passport?"

"Yes."

"Then _go_ ," Theresa instructed. "Go and see how well you've done. Give my love to... to everyone." She took quick steps backwards, out of reach, and waved him off. "Goodbye! I'll see you in a year! Phone-calls will be irregular, but I'll be _very_ unhappy if you don't pick up! Maybe I'll send some postcards!"

Douglas bit back a smile as he dragged himself to the check-in desk. The queue was long but he didn't turn back. He was becoming as indecisive as Martin. On the one hand, he ached for home. On the other, his results would arrive in three days. As much faith as he had in Martin's revision techniques, he wasn't capable of dismissing the doubt that plagued him. If he didn't get into medical school...

As the queue trundled forwards in a bustle of bags and cases clicking together, Douglas steeled himself. First things first, he needed a place to stay. He wasn't ready to face his parents yet after they way they had left thing.

Douglas pulled his phone from his pocket and chose the contact at the top of his list – practically speed dial without the commitment. The dial-tone lasted only a moment, and then he was met with a familiar, excited shout.

"Yes, hello, Arthur," Douglas said.

" _Douglas_ -"

"Arthur, listen," Douglas interrupted. "I'm going to be back in Fitton before tomorrow. I need you to convince your mother to let me stay. Then... I'm going to need your help."

The moment Martin saw his brother waiting in the living room, his eyes widened. He tried to back away, quickly and quietly, only to collide with his mother's ornamental vase. In the seconds it took for him to set it right, Simon had caught him with an arm slung around his shoulder and a smarmy grin.

"Martin! How are you, chum?" Simon boomed, incapable of keeping his voice at an indoor level. "We barely see each other nowadays."

"You saw me at breakfast," Martin muttered.

"Oh, that doesn't count," Simon replied with a dismissive wave of his hand. It was only then that Martin realised he was being led through the house, Simon still talking without breath. "You know what we should do? A catch up. A proper grown up lads' catch up. What d'you say, chap? A few pints down the pub?"

"A-actually, Simon – um, Simon," Martin struggled to extricate himself from Simon's hold. His temper flared but it was weak and ready to fold, exhausted already. "Somin – a-actually, I wanted to be alone tonight. I-I've got things to do-"

He had moping to do. Self-pity wouldn't tend to itself. His results came in a few days and he hadn't heard from Douglas since Sunday. Martin had scheduled a lot of wallowing to make up for it.

Not that Simon cared.

"Do it another time. Come on, Martin. It'll be fun."

Despite all his best efforts, Martin found himself an hour later, sitting in Fitton's finest pub – inhabited he was sure by the most boring of Fitton Council's interns. It was an odd mix – much like the colourful beverage that Simon pushed into his hands along with the more conventional beer.

"There, get that down you," Simon instructed with a jaunty grin. "I've been saying to Dad for ages – the three of us should do this more often. We should try and nab him next time."

" _I_ didn't want you to nab me," Martin exclaimed, sloshing his drink over the backs of his knuckles.

"Don't be silly."

"I-I'm not, Simon! I'm not in the mood."

At that, Simon frowned and fixed him with a perplexed glare. He was nowhere near perceptive enough for Martin to think that he could see inside his head, but he was certainly trying.

"We barely spend any time together anymore, you know?" Simon said eventually. "He sipped his drink and sighed, fingering the soft beginnings of a moustache that tickled his upper lip. "You've gone off and become an adult – I was talking to Mum about it. You've grown up and applied to big schools and gone off on your own-"

"D-doing _exams_ and part-time work," Martin interrupted, biting back a prickle of defensiveness at the thought of GERTI and his pittance of a wage for helping her get ready.

"And boys," Simon muttered.

Martin seized up immediately, heat coursing through him.

"Wh-what was that?"

"I don't mean anything by it," Simon replied, realising his mistake. The hand holding his drink rose in surrender. "I just... the way Mum-O pit it you've fallen in love and been left heartbroken and I didn't know about any of it. I didn't know you were seeing that boy you kept inviting over for dinner-"

"M-maybe if you'd been paying attention," Martin muttered. He took a swig of his drink to quell his frustration and regretted it as the burn left him spluttering.

Simon patted his back, in an ineffectual attempt to help.

He waited until Martin was silent and glaring before speaking again.

"That's what I mean though, Martin," he said. "I'm out of the loop. You and Caitlin are at school and I'm out in the world – but soon you're going to go your own way too. I'd hate to have no idea what's going on in your life."

Martin swallowed the retort that was on the tip of his tongue. Instead, he ran his fingers along the edge of his glass. Simon only cared when it was convenient or enjoyable for him. This was no different. Nevertheless, Martin couldn't help the wistful pang in his chest that longed for attention.

"W-well, I'm not heartbroken," he said, finally.

Simon gave a short ' _hm_ ' and raised an eyebrow, pleasantly surprised that Martin was talking to him.

"Is that so?"

"Yup," Martin replied. "Douglas is great."

"You know how few relationships last from school through to university, don't you? The numbers aren't promising, Martin."

"Simon..."

"What?"

"That, right there," Martin said. "That's why I don't tell you things."

"Oh..." Simon frowned as if genuinely confused as to what he had done wrong. Then he flashed Martin a guilty smile and took a swig of his drink. "Sorry, chum. It's worth a think, though."

"Yes, Simon..."

Martin sighed but he didn't resist the arm that went around his shoulders. It was worth a night of peace, even if there wasn't much chance of quiet with his brother booming over the pub's other patrons.

"Douglas!"

The instant Douglas reached the doorstep of the Knapp-Shappey residence, he was bombarded by the full force of Arthur as the door was flung open. He was exhausted, jet-lagged, and slightly sticky from hours of travelling, and Arthur was just as tall and wide as he was – although he wrapped his arms around the other boy and clapped his back, Douglas was nearly knocked off his feet. Over Arthur's shoulder, he could see Carolyn in the hall, rolling her eyes and ducking back inside.

A rush of affection - of warmth at the sunny reception – flooded Douglas' senses. He laughed as the both of them found them feet. It was good to be missed – better to be home.

"It's good to see you too, Arthur."

With a fair amount of fumbling, Douglas made it through the doorway and into the hall.

"It's great to have you back, Douglas. Things haven't been the same without you here," Arthur said. He talked at a rapid speed, ushering Douglas further inside and then tripping over his bag on his way to close the door behind them. "Not that it's not been brilliant – it has. MJN's up and running and there aren't any lawyers hanging around anymore. We're – well, I say we – Mum really – she's holding interviews for a First Officer but Herc's managing on his own for now because they only ever take GERTI out to Europe – back by tea most days."

"So I haven't missed much at all then?" Douglas mused, unable to keep the smile from his face. He had watched the two of them struggle for so long. It was about time he got to watch them take off. "So what do you get up to when Herc's taking your mother on a flying tour of Europe?"

"I do whatever I like," Arthur replied. He led Douglas into the kitchen, where Carolyn was set up with her laptop. A plate of fairy cakes was balanced atop the stove, but judging from the deliriously coloured icing, they were Arthur's creations – not hers. "See, 'cos I've got nothing to do until my interview," Arthur continued. "So I've been practicing with Martin. And I've been going crazy golfing with Tiffy – and she took me to a show jumping competition."

"Things are going well then?"

"Yeah, I feel like I can really talk to her, you know?" Arthur said with a grin. "And I've been reading a book too."

"A singular book?" Douglas asked as he dropped his bag to the floor.

"White Fang!"

"Well, good for you," Douglas drawled. I can't wait to hear more."

"Oh, don't encourage him," Carolyn sighed, with a lip twitching towards a smile. "I get the daily report as it is."

" _Mum_ ," Arthur exclaimed. "You ask how my day was."

"Hmm..."

Arthur bumbled around the kitchen for a moment longer before ducking down to take Douglas' bad. He hoisted it over his shoulder as if it weighed nothing.

"I'll take this to the guest room for you."

"There's no need-"

"No, I want to," Arthur interrupted, waving off Douglas' attempt to help him. "I'll be back in a minute."

With that, Arthur was gone. Douglas made a mental note to hand out gifts later. With nothing else to do, Douglas took a seat at the kitchen table, nabbing a cake or two on the way which he dubiously nibbled.

"Arthur says business is booming," he said, in lieu of a hello.

The moment he spoke, Carolyn tilted her screen and grinned a shark like grin. It would have been terrifying if she hadn't looked so well. The last time he had seen her, Douglas hadn't noticed how strained she had looked. Now, with the absence of bags under her eyes and stress lines in her cheeks, she looked younger and infinitely more cheerful, as if a great weight had been lifted from her shoulders.

"That it is, Douglas," Carolyn preened. "MJN's even more of a success than I thought it would be."

"Good. I'm very happy for you."

"As you should be, you useless scamp," she said, fondly, he thought. She motioned for him to rise as she typed one handed. "Here, come here, look at this." As Douglas did as he was told and rounded the table, she brought up a garish webpage covered in aeroplanes. "Here – ignore the aesthetic – Arthur's handiwork. It'll burn your eyes out if you look too hard. Here you go – see that?"

She pointed to a patch of text. It was hard to read – tiny and badly coloured against the background. It made Douglas' head spin just looking at it. He was about to say so, biting back a prickle of shame, when Carolyn shot him a sideways glance and explained without needing to be asked.

"Those are your words, Douglas," she said. "For once it's a good thing you can't keep your opinions to yourself."

" _My_ words?" You mean... you used my ideas?"

Douglas vaguely recalled speaking aloud into a Dictaphone.

"No, no, ye of little faith," Carolyn trilled. "I copied it down word for word. Now – look here," she pointed to a row of numbers in the corner of the page. "Can you see that?"

"Yes."

"Those are all the people that have visited our site."

"So?"

"So a lot of them have booked flights."

"And your point is?"

"My point, you infuriating sponger, is that they didn't come for the dancing aeroplanes," Carolyn elaborated with a groan and a glare. "They came and stayed because of your particular way with words, Douglas."

Douglas' reply caught in his throat, quickly becoming a lump. He leaned on the edge of Carolyn's seat and stared at the screen, hardly daring to believe. He had always known that his elocution and enunciation could entertain a crowd, but to see it down in writing – albeit, wiring that he couldn't read without acquiring a headache – it made his eyes burn ever so slightly.

"Well, that's... good then."

"You're making me a lot of money, Douglas. It's more than good."

"Of course... right..."

Carolyn sighed and closed the page. Her hand made contact with his arm in what might have been a motherly pat, but didn't last long enough for him to tell.

"Alright, don't get too excited," Carolyn said. "It's still a nightmare to look at."

At that moment, Arthur returned.

"What's a nightmare? Oh, are you showing him the site?" he asked. "It's brilliant, isn't it? We're getting loads of bookings. Mostly from very posh people."

"They do tend to be the sort to hire private jets," Douglas remarked. "The richer they are and the less sense they have, the better while it's just you and Herc on board."

He directed this last to Carolyn.

"The moment someone becomes a customer, they lose any sense they had," Carolyn replied dryly. "Loathe as I am to admit it, I could use an extra pair of hands in the cabin as well as in the flight-deck."

Douglas snorted but understood the subtle cues as she tilted her laptop's screen to its proper angle. He followed Arthur from the room, hands in his pockets, feeling better than he had all month.

"So, do you want to go into town then?" Arthur asked. "Or we could go see Martin. He hasn't stopped talking about you all week."

"Actually, Arthur," Douglas caught him by the arm and pulled him to a stop. "I don't want Martin to know I'm back yet. I thought you and I could work on that scheme we discussed over the phone."

Douglas waited patiently as Arthur's eyes widened in comprehension.

"Oh... yeah! That's a great idea!"

The day after Douglas was due to arrive back in Fitton, Martin checked his phone. There were no messages. Not a text or even a missed call. He wondered belatedly whether his flight had been delayed and then dismissed the idea. That was the sort of thing that Douglas would have called to tell him about.

Around nine am, he got a text from Arthur telling him to come to the airfield. With nothing planned, Martin dragged himself into some clothes and out of his house, for once not looking forward to immersing himself in the world of aviation. Arthur met him at the porta-cabin and didn't invite him in – it was a place of business now, not a place for lazy teenagers to lounge around – or so Carolyn had said.

They wandered slowly towards the plane, which was also mostly off limits now unless them were willing to do the hovering. Martin did notice that Arthur was twitchier than normal – slightly red-faced and constantly checking his watch – but he paid him no notice. His mood was an intolerable weight that nothing could lift.

"Have you heard from Douglas?" he asked as he stepped into the shadow GERTI cast.

"No – definitely not," Arthur hastily replied. He was a funny colour now, and he very abruptly stopped walking. Martin didn't have time to be more than confused. "Actually – yes, I heard from him. He said he might stay in Europe."

"What?"

Martin's heart seized in his chest.

"Um, he said he liked the European things so much that he's staying – forever maybe – or not, because he's going to Oxford. But definitely until then."

"H-he's staying with Theresa?"

"Um, probably. Or yes," Arthur replied.

For a moment, Martin was seized by an irrational fear – that Douglas and Theresa had done the worst and fallen in love over their shared of love things. The fear was gone in a flash. They would never do that. He trusted them both too much to believe that they could.

"Oh..."

"Before he could say anymore, Arthur was off in a flurry of clumsy movement.

"What's that? I think I hear Mum calling-"

"Should I-"

"You should wait here," Arthur instructed, and then called over his shoulder as if he were in a poorly directed play. "What's that Mum? I'm coming!"

Martin didn't try to stop him. Instead he ambled around in GERTI's shadow, levelling her wheels with gentle kicks as he passed – as affectionately as one might pat a dog. He tried not to wallow in self-pity. A good boyfriend would be happy that the boy he loved was enjoying himself. A good human being was well within its rights to feel upset – abandoned even. Actually-

Martin startled as a pair of hands landed on his shoulders.

"Guess who!"

Jumping out of his skin as he whirled around, Martin swore aloud as he was met with Douglas' grinning face and the pleasant sound of his guffaws. His hands were on Martin's shoulders and he was still half-covered in shadow as he peeked out from his hiding place.

Frustration tangled with a rush of fondness so hot and sweet that it almost stole Martin's breath.

 _"_ _You actual child!"_

Douglas laughed even harder. The force of it brought him closer as he pressed a hand to his abdomen, doing nothing to stifle his amusement.

"I'm sorry, Martin. I couldn't help-"

"Martin grasped Douglas' collar and slammed their lips together before he could finish. The hands returned to his shoulders but Martin focused entirely on the jarring clunk of their teeth, the slight bristle on Douglas' cheek, and the slick press of their lips and a fair bit of tongue as he kissed him hard and short, over and over again.

When they paused for breath, Martin's weight was pressed into Douglas' chest and Douglas was pressed into the metal length of GERTI's le above the wheel. Their chest heaved and as Douglas blinked in surprise, Martin beamed.

"You're an absolute-"

"I know," Douglas concluded for him. "I've missed you too."

The next few days were blissful. Douglas struggled to tear himself away from Arthur's house. With little to do at the airfield, Martin visited every day. His eyes widened with delight when he saw the model that Douglas had bought for him. Out of respect for Carolyn, who was graciously letting them use her house free of charge, they never did more than slip hands beneath inner layers of clothes.

They didn't mean they didn't spend hours tangled up in one another – it just meant that there were a lot of near-misses and red faces as they calmed themselves down.

Soon enough, however, the day was upon them. With Arthur in tow, they trudged up to the school and awaited the envelopes that sealed their futures.

The instant the paper was in his hands, Douglas' palms began to sweat. The only thing that kept him from wringing them together was the knowledge that doing so would ruin the results he had worked so hard for. Doubt wormed its way through his veins, leaving him cold even as heat chased itself under his skin.

He followed the others robotically to the edge of the school grounds, sitting on a bench only because he saw Arthur to the same from the corner of his eye. Martin stayed on his feet, he noted, anxiously pacing and muttering to himself.

"Like a bandage... like a bandage – o-or is it a plaster? No, a bandage – just rip it off..."

Rip it off he did. The tearing of the envelope rang in Douglas' ears. He watched Martin scan the sheath of paper, holding his breath. Then Martin heaved a sigh of relief.

"I-I passed..."

"Hmm?"

"I-I got the grades," Martin repeated. "All I need now is to get through the interview. I got enough to get into all of them."

"All of what?" Arthur asked.

"The flight schools."

"But I thought you applied to Oxford."

"I did, but if I don't get in there are others."

"Wow," Arthur nodded in wonderment, as if he'd never heard of alternatives before. "What did you get?"

"A – A – I got a B in English but that's alright."

Douglas listened to it all with a numb sort of feeling in the tips of his fingers. He passed his envelope between his hands. When Martin looked to him, he smiled a strained smile and longed to reach out to him – glowing with pride as if he were outside his body, feeling glad in a detached sense. He watched Arthur tear open his results and then pass them to Martin, asking him if they were good enough to get him an interview.

Martin flustered a moment before answering.

"They're... good enough," he said, passing the paper back to Arthur. Then he abandoned his reluctance and beamed. "It's great, Arthur – good enough! You're good enough!"

"Brilliant!"

Then they were both looking to Douglas and asking why he hadn't opened his yet. Douglas opened his mouth but no sound escaped.

Finally, mercifully, Martin's brow furrowed and he seemed to read Douglas' mind.

"D-do you want me to open it?"

Douglas let him pry the envelope from his hand. He closed his eyes as it was torn open. For a moment there was silence. Then he felt Martin sit beside him and slip his fingers into the gaps between Douglas' own.

"You did it?"

"What?"

"Y-you did it," Martin repeated. "You got the grades – th-they're not perfect, but they're good. They're good enough to get you into medical school."

Douglas opened his eyes and saw the paper that Martin held open. Bs and a C looked up at him, big and bold – and there, a single A in Physics. It had always been his best by far – nowhere near as useful to a doctor as Biology, which Martin had focused his energies upon, but still. It was more than he had ever hoped for.

Douglas squeezed Martin's hand so hard it must have hurt.

"It might not be enough for Oxford."

"Rubbish," Martin assured him. "You'll win them over in the interviews."

"Yeah, you're brilliant, Douglas," Arthur chipped in.

"And besides," Martin continued. "You know your luck."

He did know his luck. Douglas nearly sagged as the weight flew from his shoulders. He leaned against Martin and tried not to cry. Part of him hadn't thought his hard work would pay off. And now... now the future reared its head again.

In the end, Douglas gave in and let Arthur pile in on a group hug. Relief was too sweet to ignore.


	18. Chapter 18

Chapter Eighteen

By some obscure twist of fate, all of their interviews were booked within the same week. Instead of traipsing back and forth between Oxford and Fitton, the three of them piled their money together and booked a single hotel room for the week – it helped that Douglas still had some left over from his travels, courtesy of his parents. Carolyn chipped in too, with a stern aside to Douglas that she was to make sure they were all safe. Arthur could probably bumble through life and come out completely unharmed, but it wasn't worth the risk.

With Martin looking over his shoulder, Douglas carefully noted down the dates and times of their interviews on a calendar that hung in the Knapp-Shappey guest room.

His nerve shad simmered down since he had received his results. Sure, his grades weren't as terrific as Martin's, but they were good. Aside from the paperwork, being a doctor was mostly practical anyway – as long as he chose surgical studies, like his mother had.

In spite of himself, Douglas began to lay awake at night, eagerly anticipating university. Medical students were plentiful and he would be surrounded by like minded people and free to study when he liked, schedule his own life – he would no longer have to feel guilty or sneak around if he wanted to socialise and drink with his friends.

The fact that he might get to share a flat with Martin was as added bonus – the best possible bonus actually. If Arthur got into Oxford Aviation as well, they could even invite him and split the rent three ways. Martin's parents may not have had enough to support him through flight school, but between them, Carolyn and the Richardsons could subsidise what wasn't coming from the student loan company.

If needs be, Douglas was willing to get a part-time job. Anything had to be easier than slogging away to get GERTI ready to fly.

The three of them took the bus to Oxford – the cheapest option by far, but also the slowest as, to Arthur's delight, it stopped at every service station.

"I bet you my granola bar he's buying another Toblerone," Douglas muttered from beneath his hat. He didn't open his eyes from where he had been snoozing, feet propped up on the back of the chair in front.

Martin, who had taken the window seat – all the better for keeping a yellow car rally going with Arthur, who had the window just behind – sat forwards and rubbed his hands together as if he had already won.

"H-he wouldn't get another one," he said. "I bet you my orange juice he's bought us all coffee."

Douglas won. So, without coffee and with Martin's orange juice, Douglas settled back to doze while the words 'yellow car' were hammered into his long-term memory by his companions.

The hotel wasn't exactly five star – it was barely one star, but it was lit up inside and the man at the desk was very helpful, reminding them that the sofa pulled out into a bed beside the twins so that Arthur didn't have to sleep on the floor. Douglas had wanted to get Arthur his own room so that he and Martin could be alone, but he had lost that particular argument. They weren't _made_ of money.

Once in their room, Douglas immediately set about unpacking and stowing his possessions in the wardrobe and bedside table. He could hear Arthur doing the same. It took a minute or two for him to realise that Martin was watching him. When he did, a not entirely unpleasant sensation ticked at the back of his neck.

Douglas turned to find Martin staring, with his arms folded, smirking down at where he knelt by his case. He raised an eyebrow.

"I don't think I've ever seen you move so fast," Martin remarked, voice laced with sardonic wonderment.

"I'm sure you were there when I was on... hmm... how many teams was I on at school?"

"I watched all of your matches, a-and I saw you hovering about and diving in when you were needed," Martin said. "This is... this is something else. Very unlike you."

Douglas glanced down at the folded shirt in his hands.

"Ah well, you see, Martin, I've stayed in a lot of hotels in my time," he said with a jaunty grin. "And the trick is to get all of your things unpacked nice and sharpish – empty out the suitcase and get good and comfortable."

"Why?"

"What do you mean, _why_?"

"I-I mean, what's in it for you?" Martin elaborated with a shrewd stare that was far too perceptive. He dropped down on the edge of the bed. "Normally when you talk about 'the trick' there's some kind of ulterior motive, and I can't see it here."

As he hummed his acknowledgement, Douglas smiled through a tickle of affection. He leaned his shoulder against Martin's knee.

"I've always got an ulterior motive, Martin. You should know that by now."

"A-and what's it this time?"

"Did you know that if you unzip the lining of your suitcase, you can fit things between the runners and in the under-utilised space?" Douglas asked as if noting the weather. He saw Martin's eyes widen and his lips twitch in exasperated realisation. "It makes a perfect hiding spot for hotel soaps, biscuits, teas, mixed nuts..."

"Of course it does," Martin sighed.

"That's a brilliant idea, Douglas," Arthur chimed in from across the room. "I might try that."

"Atta boy."

They stayed up until they couldn't keep their eyes open any longer. They raided the mini-fridge – against Carolyn's instructions – and made toasts to all sorts of things. The three of them camped out on Arthur's soda bed. Douglas rested against Martin, slumped so that his head was on his shoulder, and enjoyed the pleasant warmth that flowed through him and the easy was that laughter came when Martin's breath puffed past his ear.

"And to all of us!" Arthur declared – their final toast. "To all of us coming to Oxford and staying friends and spending the rest of our lives without anything going wrong."

"To the future," Martin replied.

"The future," Douglas echoed, and let their glasses clink together.

A short while later, when the lights were out and they were all tucked up in their respective beds, Douglas lay on his side and watched Martin – or the lump of blankets under which Martin was buried – roll over. The twin beds were close enough that they could see each other's faces through the dark.

"Douglas?"

"Hmm?"

"What did you say to your parents?" Martin hurried on before Douglas could reply. "I-I didn't ask before. I mean, when I got thrown out – what did you say?"

The memory of that night and the following day made an unwelcome reappearance in the back of Douglas' mind.

"I said I loved you," he answered, giving it more thought than was necessary.

"And?"

"And that was it," Douglas said, quietly, so as not to wake Arthur, who was snoring away on the other side of the room. "A lot of things were said, but... my loving you remained the crux of my argument. Eventually it was decided that I needed time away from you. They thing you're a bad influence."

" _Me?_ "

It was the most affronted he had ever heard Martin. Douglas couldn't help snort.

"I did tell them it was a ridiculous thing to say."

"Good – I-I'm not a bad influence," Martin said. He shifted slightly where he lay and let his hand flop over the side of the mattress, fingers flexing as if searching for some to hold. "A-and I love you too. I'd have told them that if I'd been there."

Douglas didn't respond. He let himself slip into a pleasant sleep, listening to the restless slip of Martin's covers as he fidgeted beneath the sheets.

The interview at Oxford Aviation Academy was at the beginning of the week. Martin and Arthur went in together and discovered upon entering a big room full of chairs that were holding at least thirty other people, all applying as well. Some of them were a lot older than them – most weren't, but they too had a steely determination about them.

When they sat in the corner of the room, Arthur patted Martin's shoulder.

"It'll be alright."

Martin wasn't sure that he believed him. Just like he was, Arthur was looking around the room, eyes wide. He was pale and still beside Martin. Every now and then the stiff material of his shirtsleeve brushed Martin's elbow as he wound his hands together in his lap.

"Do you remember everything I taught you?" Martin whispered after ten minutes of silence.

"Yup."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, I'm sure," Arthur replied, voice taut. "I'm not stupid."

He didn't look at Martin. He didn't need to. Martin knew that Arthur only snapped when he was stressed or nervous. Although they had both had a pep-talk from Douglas that morning, and Martin had received a 'good luck' text from Theresa, Arthur had spent an extra hour on the phone talking to Carolyn. From the amount of 'hm's and 'yup's Martin assumed that she had been giving her son comfort or advice.

Arthur's conversation with Tiffy was a lot less one-sided, but it had sounded like Arthur was describing the bus ride into Oxford rather than the interview. It made them late leaving, but Douglas had reminded Martin that sometimes it was soothing just hearing a voice that cared, even about the little things.

Now, Martin wished that Douglas was there to give him confidence. Or his dad, to pay him on the back. Or even Simon to boom over the other applicants and make them just as uncomfortable as he was, to give himself an advantage.

Over the course of the hour, they waited. They listened to the names of other applicants echo inside the hall and watched as the owners disappeared inside the interview room. They emerged looking either pleased with themselves or forlorn.

Then...

"Martin Crieff!"

Martin didn't recall crossing the room. When he tried, all he found was a vague memory of linoleum floor, laid out like a path in a treasure hunting movie, where the rest of the ground had fallen away. His ears rang until he reached an open door. Then it shut behind him and he was faced with a table, behind which sat two people – a man and a woman – in pilot's uniforms. Another man, in a suit, was on his feet, hand outstretched.

In an instant, Martin's practice kicked in. Nerves still raced beneath his skin, but he knew what to do.

He shook the man's hand firmly.

"H-hello, Sir."

"Hello, Martin is it?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good, Martin," said the man as he released Martin's hand. Martin realised only then how sweaty his palms were. The man kept talking as if he hadn't noticed, touching a finger to his spectacles. "I'm Lionel. This is Seamus, and Zainab."

He motioned to the man and the woman in turn. Martin shook each of their hands, and then waited for Lionel to gesture towards a free chair before taking it, dropping his bag beside his feet.

"No need to look so worried, Mr Crieff," Seamus remarked as Lionel sat beside him.

"I-I'm not worried – I-I mean, I am – but the normal amount – the normal amount of worried – wh-which is to say not at all," Martin stammered, and felt his face flush. Hastily, he ducked down to pull his CV from the outer pocket of his bag, protected by a sheet of cardboard to stop it from bending. "H-here, um – here's my CV, for you to look at. If you want. You don't have to."

Lionel took it from him and laid it out. It was Zainab, placing a pen behind her ear that she had used to tap the CV, pushing her dark hair back from where it had slipped from her bun, that spoke.

"It's very professional looking," she said. "Did you have tutorials at school?"

"Oh no," Martin answered quickly. "I did this all myself."

He watched the three of them share a glance. Martin chose to focus on Zainab, whose eyebrow rose in what might have been appraisal. He tried not to fidget – when his hands landed in his lap, he made sure to fold them and not to wriggle or hunch forwards.

Seamus, who looked exhausted, pulled up a thick folder full of laminated paper.

"Right, Martin, we're going to ask you a few questions," Lionel said. "Still no need to worry. These should be easy."

It was with a heaving sigh that Seamus retried one set of printed papers and shared them between his colleagues. Martin felt his confidence flag – only to return again when the questions started. He had prepared himself for every eventuality.

Lionel asked personal questions, like why he wanted to be a pilot. Martin explained concisely, just like he had rehearsed, about how he had always wanted to be a pilot, ever since he was six. Although he had learned his answers by rote, he still stammered. Sometimes they came out with different words than he had planned, and each time one of the interviewers asked him what he meant, Martin inwardly cursed himself. He rectified this by 'expanding' – by taking a question and turning the discussion towards aviation.

It worked.

Zainab's interest was piqued as she asked questions that allowed him to cite the manual – proudly cross-referencing the opinions from various manuals from multiple aircraft. Soon the interview was steered back on course by Seamus, who asked questions in a bored tone of voice – such as what Martin could do to benefit the Academy and how he would rate his skill set.

Here, Martin floundered. His hands sweated so much that he couldn't help moving about, and he was sure he was squirming. He could feel three pairs of eyes on him as he recited the answers that he had chosen earlier. He didn't want to boast, but he didn't want to seem underconfident. He would give anything to fly, but he didn't want to lie. Eventually he ended on something that came out awfully close to 'well we'll never know, will we?'.

Martin had no idea what to think when silence fell.

"Well, you've certainly done your research," Zainab said.

"Very good effort, Martin," Lionel added.

"Yes, well," Seamus closed his file and cleared his throat. "We shall be in touch when we've come to our decision. You can expect a letter within three weeks, Mr Crieff."

The next he knew, Martin was in the hall again, feeling like he had been slapped. He wasn't sure whether it was a good feeling or not. But... he had done it, and they seemed impressed with his knowledge and preparation.

"How'd it go?" Arthur asked when Martin dropped down beside him.

"Alright... I-I think," Martin replied. He rubbed the back of his neck and bit his lip. "I-I mean, Yeah, I think it went well... I'm just worrying. Of course it went well. It was fine... i-it wasn't bad."

"Oh, good."

With the iron bars that had been constricting his lungs gone, Martin could breathe easier. He tried to make conversation but Arthur was quiet, tapping his fingers on his knee.

Then his name was called.

"Arthur Shappey, you're up!"

Martin expected Arthur to leap to his feet. He didn't. As the heads of the other hopefuls turned to see who was next, Arthur stiffened, took a deep breath – and then turned his head in a perfect reflection of everyone else.

Baffled, Martin sat forwards and whispered in Arthur's ear.

"That's you, Arthur," he said, thinking that he was just confused. "It's your turn."

"I know," Arthur whispered back. His eyes were wider than Martin had ever seen them.

"Then why aren't you moving?"

" _Because I can't do it_."

Martin stared at Arthur. Arthur turned to him and there was something high-pitched and panicked about his tone.

"I can't do it, Martin. I can't be a pilot," he hissed.

"B-but that's all you've ever wanted to be."

"Well I can't always have what I want," Arthur hissed, frowning as his brow furrowed. He turned so that their knees bumped, so that the others couldn't see his face. "Mum's always saying that – I want doesn't get – just because I want to be a pilot doesn't mean I should, or could-"

"I think she meant toys and sweets when you were a kid-"

" _I can't!"_

"You're not stupid, Arthur," Martin tried. "You said so yourself."

"I know I'm not – if I was, I wouldn't know what I can and can't do – but I _do_ know. I know what I can do and I know what I'm rubbish at, and I'll be a rubbish pilot –I'd have to do maths and science and, and-" Arthur almost raised his voice, only to drop down into another desperate whisper. "I'm not like them, Martin –I'm not like you. They already look piloty. I _don't_."

"B-but I'm sure if you tried-"

" _I don't want to_ ," Arthur insisted. "Not now."

Martin's heart sank .He stared at Arthur's face – a face which was normally so bright it defied the laws of time – suddenly looking all his eighteen years and more. He wanted to comfort him but Arthur didn't look distressed – he was deadly serious and bristling. Swallowing the lump in his throat, Martin could only stare as hopelessness took hold.

"But your dreams..."

"I'll get new dreams," Arthur said. "Dreams I can do – little ones. Ones that make me happy instead of... I was happier when this was a dream and when I wasn't actually here."

Martin didn't know what to say. He didn't have to say anything. Arthur rose and led them from the hall, and Martin had no choice but to follow.

They met Douglas at the hotel. He was pleased for Martin and shocked to hear that Arthur had given up. He didn't argue though. While Martin sat aside, Douglas comforted Arthur with a bout of cheer and slick one-liners.

It was only when Martin caught his eyes that he knew they were thinking the same thing. Their dreams of a shared flat in Oxford had just lost a member.

It wasn't until past-midnight that Arthur showed any sign of being really upset. Martin lay in the dark, listening to Douglas snore across the room, when the light from Arthur's phone reflected on the ceiling. He spoke in a soft murmur.

"Yeah, Mum... hi... I know it's late... yup... hmm... yup... I didn't go in... I mean I didn't go in the interview..." A minute's silence followed. Then Arthur's voice started again. "Don't be disappointed... you _are_ , I can hear... don't tell Dad, will you... I know, Mum... yeah... yeah... hmmm... yeah... I'm fine... say hi to GERTI... and Herc... and everything in – oh, okay... yeah..."

Trying desperately not to eavesdrop anymore, Martin closed his eyes.

Despite only listening to half of Martin's advice, Douglas thought his interview was going rather well. The preliminary questions about him, his grades, his desire to be a doctor, were easy to answer. The trickier set, the cryptic and abstract ones that top universities were infamous for – like _do snails have consciousness?_ – were impossible to prepare for, but Douglas could spar easily, making intense thought look spontaneous.

He didn't know why he had been so worried, Douglas thought as he sat before a panel of professionals of all ages. He was good with people. He knew how to act and how to charm.

"And what do you think you would contribute, if we were to take you on?" asked a man with his collar open and his tie pulled loose at the knot. He had been there for hours, Douglas assumed, and would not be charmed by clever words.

"Well, I think – I know that I would contribute what any good student could – a desire to take as much from your school as I can. After all, the skills that you can teach me are skills that I don't yet have, but which I am fully prepared to acquire. You can see on my CV that as well as my A Levels, I have a talent for acting, various instruments, multiple sports," Douglas reported. He saw a woman at the end of the panel nod approvingly, caught her eye, and then looked back to the man who had asked the question. "What I would contribute, sir, is a student who has proven himself adept at acquiring skills to a high standard, all within a few years and despite the pressure of my exams and well... growing up."

There was a chorus of rustles and scrapes as different panellists shuffled their notes and scribbled new ones. A woman to Douglas' left cleared her throat and leaned forwards.

"The medical world is very different from school," she said, "Are you sure that you're fully aware of the demands?"

"Both of my parents are doctors," Douglas replied with a confident smile. "In fact my mother's a surgical head, or something similar. I've seen first hand how demanding working in a hospital can be – the long hours, the emotional burden, the paperwork – and I know that I can cope with that. It's a job that you take home with you, but that's the home I grew up in."

At that, there was a faint murmur between one of two of them, as if he had baffled them with his wisdom.

"I notice you haven't spoken much about the academic side of the course, Mr Richardson," said a little man with a bristling beard. "You are interested in anatomy?"

"Of course, I have an interest in Biology and the medical sciences, but it comes seconds, I think, to the desire to heal," Douglas replied. "To help people on a daily basis is a far greater motivation – a worthwhile career choice."

That was pushing it a bit, but Douglas suspected that nobody noticed. Soon they were asking him if he had any questions for them.

Douglas almost said no.

Then a voice – one that sounded awfully like Martin's – whispered inside his skull. _It's alright to ask for help_. He wasn't sure if Martin had ever said those words, but they must have been implied. They brought nerves rushing through his stomach and words to the tip of his tongue.

"Yes, actually, I um..." Douglas fought through the stubborn lump in his throat. If the panel was surprised to hear him anxious for the first time, they didn't show it. "There was... there is something."

"Yes?" prompted the man with the tie.

"It's just, I... I don't want you to think that I'm perfect," Douglas said, fidgeting in his seat. "Everything I said was true and... and my CV's accurate as well, but... sometimes I have... I have trouble."

"How so?"

"I think I might be dyslexic," Douglas admitted. It felt like a blow to the chest – like being hung over a precipice and waiting for the owners of the eyes that fixed on him to cut him loose. "I've - I've never been diagnosed, but –but I looked up the symptoms and I – my friend helped me to find ways to make reading and writing easier. I can do them, but – I need time- just time and techniques, but- I don't want you to think I can't do it – this course, I mean, but I also don't want you to take me and think I oversold myself when I'm behind on notes or something."

For a moment, there was silence. Then an older woman with something resembling a perm spoke up.

"You do realise, Mr Richardson, that students with dyslexia are given allowances by most educational bodies," she said. "I invigilate exams. The dyslexic students are allowed twenty percent more time and then often get assistance outside of class."

"But I'm not diagnosed," Douglas insisted, spirit deflating. He felt his shoulders sag as he lowered his chin. "I always... I didn't want to make a fuss, or disappoint anyone."

"Excuse me, Mr Richardson," interrupted the little bearded man. "Do you mean to tell me that you achieved these grades," he pointed to the CV, "these passable grades without the assistance that you would have been allowed?"

"Yes, sir."

The panellists shared another glance. The older woman spoke again.

"Well, Mr Richardson, you're not the first and you won't be the last. We actually have facilities in place for students that might have dyslexia, or other learning difficulties, but aren't sure," she said. "If you're right, we can make allowances, I'm sure."

Stunned, Douglas could only stare and gape.

"Thank you, Ma'am."

Douglas shook hands with each panellist and was shown from the room. He walked as if through a dream until he reached the place where Martin and Arthur were waiting, wearing matching grins.

"So, how'd it go?" Martin asked.

"They'll get back to me in the next few weeks."

"That's brilliant, Douglas!"

"It really is," Martin agreed. "I said you could do it."

The following weeks were filled with nothing but wasted time. Life at Carolyn's house was peaceful despite her fervour as a CEO at all hours of the day and the yappy little dog that charged about at the worst possible times. Although Martin went home each day, he was sure he spent mor time with the others.

They shared one eventful lunch with Tiffy, who Arthur had invited and insisted that they meet properly. She was a quaint but sturdy girl with brown skin and a perfectly symmetrical smile, who always seemed to dress as if she was just back from the stables. She could talk as much as Arthur did, with her fork in one hand and a glass of water balanced in the other, but when Arthur talked, she was quiet and attentive, listening and nodding along, glancing at Martin and Douglas to make sure they were listening too. When Arthur paused for breath, she chipped in with gentle and sensible suggestions which subtly shifted Arthur's own speech from the ridiculous to the slightly more rational.

"You seem to be having a good influence on Arthur," Douglas remarked, arching an eyebrow. He ignored Martin when he kicked him under the table, encouraging him to be polite.

"I don't know about influencing," Tiffy replied with a careless shrug as she reached for another bread roll. She wasn't the sharpest, Martin had noted, but she was grounded enough that she couldn't miss the intonations in other people's voices – Douglas' especially. "I like him a lot. You're always so cheerful, aren't you, Arthur?"

"'Cos you like me and I like you, so it's be impossible not to be," Arthur agreed.

"It's good to have someone so eager at the stables," Tiffy told Douglas. "It's so much hard work sometimes. You forget how exciting it is. But not with Arthur around- and he was telling me about you two –a doctor and a pilot."

"Well, not yet," Martin stammered, flustering as pride rushed through him. Guilt returned a moment later, when Douglas' hand touched his knee, but when he looked to Arthur he didn't seem upset. Still, Martin couldn't help himself. "So, Arthur... have you decided what you're going to do yet?"

"Sort of," Arthur replied. "I was telling Tiffy earlier."

"I said I thought it was a good idea to find some small jobs," Tiffy said. "I think Arthur was probably right to walk away from flying – not that I think he couldn't do it, but," she placed a hand over her heart and met Arthur's gaze. "If it doesn't sit right in your heart, it's okay to move on."

"And she also said that maybe, instead of thinking up brilliant jobs, which are brilliant –like the guys who push the trolleys in hotels or circus masters – I should think about jobs that I know I can _already_ do," Arthur explained. "Like – I'm good at cleaning, and working at the airfield, and helping people, and web design-"

Martin looked to Douglas in the same second that his boyfriend did the same.

"Yes, I think maybe web design isn't the job for you," Douglas said. "Too much sitting down."

"That's a brilliant point, Douglas."

The week's best moment was swiftly followed by the worst.

Against his better judgement, secretly revelling in the daringness of it, Martin let Douglas sneak them onto GERTI. MJN was currently at rest and unbooked, so there was no one aboard.

After entering the flight-deck, it wasn't long before they were both in the Captain's seat, Martin in Douglas' lap with his fingers in Douglas' floofy hair so that he could control the kiss – tidy and efficient but long and hard, with Douglas' hands groping at his waist and his own knees sliding towards the back of the seat, bringing them closer.

It wasn't until they were hot and sweating, dizzied by the lack of air in their lungs, that Herc walked in. Herc spent the next three days lecturing them on proper workplace procedure with a smirk.

"Dear god, don't call him unprofessional," Douglas had groaned on the second day, when Herc popped over to take Carolyn to lunch.

Martin had grumbled and pretended he couldn't hear.

Then a letter arrived for Douglas.

Martin was the one to find it, jammed between a catalogue and the Fitton Herald. The address was printed over that of the Richardson household, obviously forwarded by Douglas' parents. At first, a shiver of trepidation stopped Martin from acting. He stared down at the envelope, with the Oxford University crest printed in the corner. He had absolute faith in his boyfriend. He wasn't sure what he would do if Douglas didn't get in.

Eventually, the decision was taken out of his hands by Arthur, who appeared in the hall and called out – 'Hey, Douglas! It's here!'

Martin watched as Douglas took his time opening the letter. The other boy sat and crinkled the edges in the middle of the lounge. His eyes darted back and forth across the paper. Then Douglas let out a high-pitched noise of surprise and his head snapped up to meet Martin's gaze.

"I got in..." Douglas' voice was so soft, and he didn't seem to believe it. Then he grinned and launched himself to his feet, arms thrown wide. "I got in! They want me! I'm a medical student!"

Just like that, Martin discarded his attempts to find the right words. He was on his feet in seconds, throwing his arms around Douglas and taking all his weight as the boy practically collapsed in his arms. He squeezed so tightly he thought he might burst.

"Well done," Martin murmured into Douglas' cheek.

Douglas said something in return, but it was lost as he pressed his face into Martin's hair. His chest was heaving and Martin suspected he migiht be crying.

That night, the three of them passed around a bottle of whiskey that Arthur claimed Carolyn wouldn't miss.

Three days later, Martin's letter arrived from the Aviation Academy. Pacing back and forth in Carolyn's kitchen, having run all the way from his own house the moment he found the letter, Martin clenched his hands around it. He grasped Douglas' hand as he passed, then let go. Unlike Douglas, he had an audience. Carolyn had taken a day off and Arthur was making them all sandwiches.

"Come on, Martin," Douglas said encouragingly. "You know what it says already."

"I know... I-I know..."

"You'll have definitely got in," Arthur added. "I mean you actually went into the room."

"I-I know..."

"Martin, if you don't open that letter I will put it through the shredder," Carolyn threatened. It was her that spurred him on.

Tearing into the envelope, Martin wasted no time in pulling out the letter and scanning the text.

Every cell in his body turned to ice. He stumbled to a halt, feeling as if someone had doused him in cold water. He didn't hear what anyone was saying, although he could see them from the corner of his eye.

Strong arms went around him and his hand dropped to his side, taking the letter with it.

"Martin? What is it?"

Douglas' voice, soft and familiar, resurrected his own.

"It's a rejection," Martin croaked. "I didn't get in."


	19. Chapter 19

Chapter Nineteen

Douglas wasn't used to being cautious – not around Martin. Normally when Martin was upset, a few gentle ribs and a kiss and a hug; some light teasing was all it took. Now... Douglas wasn't sure what to do besides turn up and appear sympathetic. It had been days since the letter from Oxford Aviation Academy and it was beginning to feel like a raincloud had descended over whichever room Martin inhabited, and Douglas couldn't do a thing to lift it.

At first, Martin had been stoic – shaken and pale, but with a stiff-upper lip. He had crinkled the letter in his hands, staring at a spot somewhere in the air that nobody else could see. Then he had marched from the Knapp-Shappey kitchen without a word to any of them. Douglas had found him sitting on the doorstep, still worrying the edges of the letter between the sweaty tips of his fingers and thumbs. He sat beside him, knee brushing his, and tried to find the words to fill the void that the shattering of all Martin's dreams had created.

"Martin, I-"

"Don't."

Martin's voice was cracked and brittle. He didn't look at Douglas, but neither did his eyes drop down to the letter. He stared out across the street. Douglas suspected he wasn't really watching the neighbour's cat as it wandered between the bins.

"Martin, I just want to know-"

" _Please_ , Douglas..."

Ignoring the cavern that gaped in his chest, Douglas shifted closer and slipped an arm around Martins' shoulders. When the other boy curled around him, head buried in the crook of his neck, arms wound around his middle, Douglas leaned his weight against him to offer what comfort he could. A lump formed in his throat when Martin's chest began to hitch and his shoulders heaved. Sobs tore from his throat and Martin's fingers clutched at his shirt. The sound was deafening in the quiet street. All that Douglas could do was rub wide circles into his back.

Days later, and Douglas was at just as much of a loss.

Guilt twisted in his stomach every time he earned a pat on the back or a congratulatory text from his friends. Getting into medical school took a weight from his chest but it also opened up a vast horizon of unknown pathways. There was something daunting about it, but he supposed that that was what it was meant to feel like. When he was a doctor – saving lives and being admired by his extended family – the dread would be gone. There would be no more lectures and no more exams. Academia would last a few more years, and then he'd be set for life.

But Martin... Martin seemed to have fallen into a void of despair.

It seemed wrong to be pleased with himself when Martin was so miserable. The shock of the rejection had caught even Douglas by surprise. Of course, he hadn't had a _huge_ amount of faith in Martin's interview skills, but his exam results and his knowledge of aviation should have bought him a free path. But to reject him based on his personality alone...

Douglas had no idea what pilots were meant to be like. All he had were pictures in magazines of handsome men and women in sleek uniforms, and efficient, no-nonsense voices at the beginnings and ends of flights.

Ever since they had met and Douglas had puttered around Martin's room full of aeroplanes, he had pictured a slightly older version of Martin – with broader shoulders, more muscles, and a dashing face – in a pilot's uniform, jetting about the world.

The past few days, Douglas had had to visit Martin at his house. It meant that he didn't have to deal with Arthur being proud of him while Martin was moping. He hadn't anticipated Martin's parents showering him with praise – apparently Martin had come to his senses long enough to tell them that he had been accepted.

When they were left alone, Douglas had no choice but to watch Martin wander around and around the house, dodging his sister's equally frantic pacing – her hair tongs were broken, she wanted the part-time job with someone in town, her path was blocked by Martin whose ambitions were loftier than hers. Martin carried the letter from the Academy wherever he went, flexing his fingers until the edges were torn and brown where chunks of paper were missing. He hadn't let it go.

"Do you want to go for a walk?" Douglas asked, every now and then, when Martin stopped for breath or sat on the sofa beside him. "We could visit the airfield, or to the park – we could get on a train and go into the city, find something to do?"

"No, I'm fine," Martin replied, every single time. "I-I um... are _you_ alright?"

Douglas was never sure why Martin asked him that. At first he had thought he was playing the good host – making sure he was comfortable and making sandwiches with the efficiency of a sleep-deprived zombie before returning to his trance.

Sometimes he turned circles in his room, tapping his models and letting them swing. Douglas could only watch, slowly trudge through Martin's manuals – which were far more interesting than he had thought they were based on what Martin had rambled in his ear – and hope that Martin tried to talk to him.

Everyone had a go at cheering Martin up.

Arthur's advice was pretty basic. Douglas appreciated the simplicity of it, and the fact that while Arthur was talking, all he had to do was slip an arm around Martin and hum in agreement.

"You can try again, Martin," Arthur said. "You just apply again next year. You'll have had the practise – and you said you'd applied to others. Maybe they'll have you."

"Maybe..." Martin sighed, nursing a mug of hot chocolate that was so full of sugar Douglas was surprised that he wasn't bouncing off the walls.

Carolyn's attempt was far more tender than Douglas had expected. She was as cut-throat as ever, but for once it wasn't aimed at one of them.

"They're idiots, Martin, they really are," she assured him. "Any employer who's willing to turn down someone with as much technical knowledge as you – well, you know how I feel on the matter. You're a useless underling but at least you get the job done – more than Douglas ever does. Arthur's right. One of the others will take you."

Even Herc chipped in, coming down to Carolyn's house without his uniform, perhaps in an attempt to be sensitive. She must have called him, as Martin spent so little time at her house recently that it was too much of a coincidence otherwise.

"Arthur's right," he said. "One of the other colleges will accept your application, without the silly interview process. _And_ , even if they don't, you can try again. You'll have a whole year to earn some money, get some more work experience, mature a little. Just because your dreams are on hold doesn't mean they're gone."

"It's odd hearing so many people say that Arthur's right," Douglas remarked one day, as he lay back on Martin's head, head pillowed nicely on the blanket at its foot.

Martin lay beside him, facing the right way with his back against the headboard. The letter was on the bedside table, and they weren't saying much to each other. The pages of a book on the history of freight aircraft had given Douglas a headache, so Martin was reading it aloud for him. He looked up at the sound of Douglas' voice.

"Hmm? O-oh, yeah," Martin's voice was gruff from misuse. "Well... I've been thinking actually, a-about Arthur being right."

At that, Douglas shot upright. He steadied himself in an attempt to seem nonchalant.

"Oh yes?"

"Y-yeah... I mean, i-it's not like they've _all_ rejected me," Martin said. He shrugged and lowered the book onto his knees, propping it like a tent so that he didn't lose his page. He wasn't red-faced or fidgeting, like he did when he was nervous. In fact, there was a steeliness in his tone and a forced joviality that made Douglas both admire and worry for him. "I-I'll wait a-and I'll see which of the others will take me. I mean, they've only got my results and my CV, wh-which are good. It'll be..."

"Good?" Douglas asked, raising an eyebrow. He tried to embrace a flicker of relief, but it was dampened by something else. He couldn't put his finger on it. It had been lingering in the back of his mind since Martin's letter had arrived.

"Well, yes, it's... i-it'll be... good... I-I'll be a pilot, eventually..." Martin said. His gaze dropped and he refused to meet Douglas' eye. Something indecipherable crossed his face and he swallowed audibly. "I... I-I won't be in Oxford though."

There it was - the one thing that nobody had had the nerve to bring up. When Arthur had backed out, they had all banded around him and sworn that they would be friends forever, offering up solutions and ideas. Now... there had been no real discussion of the change in their plans. Their plans had stopped entirely. Weeks before, they had been discussing flats and rental plans and part-time jobs. That had all stopped.

"No... you won't," Douglas agreed, slowly, hardly daring to speak at all. "But you'll be in flight-school. That's all you've ever wanted. To be a pilot."

"Yeah..."

Martin nodded and drew his bottom lip through his teeth.

"You've had your whole future planned out since you were six," Douglas continued. "A change in location shouldn't make a difference."

"But my future isn't... i-it isn't the same as I thought it would be... before, I mean," Martin said. He cleared his throat and sat forwards, shuffling closer with his knees pulled up to his chest. "I-I mean... _you're_ in it. A-at least, I hope you're in it. I _want_ you in it... Douglas, I... I-I don't know... I'm not sure what to... we can't share a flat if we're on opposite sides of the country, can we?"

"It could be difficult," Douglas replied, without any of the heat. He mirrored Martin's movements. He reached out to take Martin's hand, but settled for brushing his knuckles past his, leaving his hands to fall on the covers. "But... that doesn't mean..."

Martin's eyes widened and he frowned.

"Doesn't mean what?"

Douglas faltered for a moment, glancing down at his hands. The room felt particularly quiet – too much so – shivering as if waiting for him to say the wrong thing. Saying the wrong thing wasn't something that Douglas was used to. Martin was holding his breath, and Douglas struggled to sift through the sodden tangle of nerves and worries that squirmed in his chest. It would be so much easier if things could just stay exactly as they were – if neither of them went anywhere at all.

"Well, I... Martin, you know that whatever happens..." Douglas trailed off as his eyes traced the lines of Martin's face – the freckles and the blues of his eyes. He could have stared for longer if it meant that he didn't have to come to a decision of some sort. He couldn't though. Martin was waiting, brow furrowing, and Douglas wished that he could just pull him into a hug and ignore the problem. "It doesn't mean... it doesn't mean I won't love you. I do, Martin – that's why I've been worrying. No matter what happens, that won't change."

Martin didn't respond. He nodded, slowly at first, and then more vehemently. A shadow of a smile flashed across his cheeks – only for a second – and he rose up to kiss him – short and sweet, cupping Douglas' cheek to keep him in place.

"You're right. Obvious. W-we're fine – I know we are," Martin said. "I love you too – y-you've been great. You've been amazing this week and I – I-I've been a mess."

"Understandably."

"B-but I shouldn't have been," Martin continued, shrugging off Douglas' concern. "You're right – _Arthur's_ right – the rest of the schools haven't got back to me yet. I'll be... I'll be somewhere else, b-but that won't matter. People have long distance relationships."

"They _do_ ," Douglas agreed, biting his tongue to stop from saying more. Something leapt in his chest – a warm flash of hope that caught in his throat. It was muffled, stifled, and he couldn't figure out why. "We... we wouldn't see each other for a very long time – months at a time, Martin. You might meet a nice boy-"

"W-would _you_?"

Douglas shook his head immediately.

"Of course I wouldn't," he said. He couldn't imagine being with anyone but Martin – kissing anyone, holding them, telling him the things that they talked about. "It's you, Martin – only you. I love you."

"Th-then why would I?" Martin retorted. Where Douglas expected a frown, there was a wet scoff, and Marti's fingers curling around his own. "Honestly, Douglas. Everything – everything's going to be fine. N-not as fine as we hoped, but... b-but we'll get there in the end. When you're a doctor, and I'm a pilot, w-we'll come back together. W-we can find a hospital next to an airfield, o-or..."

His eyes flickered from side to side as if he were imagining the possibilities.

Despite the ebbing trepidation, Douglas grinned. The warmth spread through him. Everything would be fine. Martin would get into one of the schools. They could survive some separation – they would be too busy studying to notice that they were apart. And then... the rest of their lives.

It was the first time Douglas had looked to the future and not felt like something was looming over him.

The knock reverberated in the hall beyond the Richardson front door. Douglas waited. He could have rung the bell, but it could be heard throughout the house. At least this way his parents might miss it and he could run away, change his mind.

There was no chance.

A minute later, the door opened and his mother appeared, looking as hassled as she ever did. The only sign that she wasn't rushing off to work were the slippers on her feet, and the pen in her hair – pinned there as she had finished with it for the day. Her surprise was replaced immediately by a desperate sort of smile as she threw her arms into the air.

"Oh, Dougie!" she exclaimed. When he didn't back away, she hopped outside and pulled him into a hug. "Dougie, sweetheart, I'm so glad you're here. Your father wanted to call, but I said we should give you space. You're an adult now. It's your decision if you want to talk to us."

She stood back, hands on his shoulders, so that she could look at him properly. Douglas grimaced, but didn't pull away. It was nice to be loved and cared for. Eventually, he shrugged her off and reached into his deep pockets.

"Hello, Mum," he sighed. He offered her the postcards he had bought without a word and she admired them with a fond smile, still standing on the doorstep. Giving her time to enjoy herself – to enjoy pretending that nothing was wrong between them – he cleared his throat and tried not to shuffle his feet. "Can I come in?"

In what felt like seconds, Douglas was ushered inside. The familiarity of his home put him at ease in spite of everything, and he was struck with a pang of nostalgia and homesickness that nearly made his knees buckle. It would be so easy to put everything behind them and move back home – live up to everything they wanted of him. Douglas dismissed the thought immediately. Life was harder and stranger now, but it was better than pretending that nothing was wrong for years on end.

Alice left Douglas when they reached the lounge, leaving him alone with his father. Clarke must have been home far longer than she had, because he was already on the sofa with his newspaper open over his knees. Douglas saw his father before his father saw _him_ , and was reminded instantly of when he had been young and had imagined his dad puffing away on a pipe like Sherlock Holmes in front of the fire.

"Dougie – I didn't know you were coming," Clarke said as he hurried to his feet. He pulled his son into a one-armed hug and patted his shoulder. This time, Douglas returned the gesture. He had missed his parents, even if every time he thought of them he was caught by a prickle of disdain. "How have you been? Your trip went well? Well, obviously it did – you're back in one piece. It was nice?"

"It was fine, Dad."

Clarke nodded sagely and pushed his specs up his nose.

"And your young man?" he asked. "How is he?"

Douglas bit down on his tongue, recalling that Martin had paid his father a visit, months ago now. Steeling himself, he took a deep breath and nodded.

"Martin's fine," he said. "He didn't get into Oxford, but we're waiting on the other letters."

Clarke nodded and hummed his acknowledgement. One hand went to his pocket, where he could hook his thumb and sway casually.

"Good... that's good, I suppose," he said. Then he sighed and looked Douglas in the eye. "Dougie, look – you know that we didn't mean-"

Alice returned before he could say more. Douglas was glad. Whatever it was going to be, he didn't need to hear it. He didn't live in their house anymore. It was none of their business. He turned from his father and watched his mother – who had abandoned her professional coat – as she straightened the ornaments on the bookcase and propped up the postcards.

"We can put something on for supper, if you're staying," she said. She touched her hair to keep it in place and plastered on a strained smile. Looking to Clarke, Alice clapped her hands together. "Can't we, darling? What've we got in the fridge? I think we've got some fresh pasta that I bought last Tuesday-"

"I'm not staying, Mum," Douglas interrupted. He buried his hands in his pockets and glanced at the floor. "Arthur's cooking – which means I need to get back and intervene before he poisons us all."

"Oh... oh alright..."

"Actually, Mum... Dad... I came to tell you that I got into Oxford," Douglas said quickly. He took a step back towards the coffee table, so that he could see both of them. They exchanged a quick glance and shared a smile – Clarke opened his arms as if to encourage a hug – but neither of them came closer. "I got the grades. _Martin_ got me the grades. Without him, I wouldn't know how to study as well as I have been. That's not what this is about though. I got in – into medical school. I just thought you should know."

For a moment, there was silence. Then Clarke closed the space between them and placed a hand on his shoulder.

"We're proud of you, Dougie," he said.

"Of course we are," Alice agreed.

Douglas nodded.

"And we're glad you told us."

Again, Douglas nodded and attempted a smile. A small part of him was pleased that they were proud. Nevertheless, now that there was nothing for them to fuss over, he couldn't think of a single thing to say. He didn't want to know how hard things were at the hospital, and he didn't really want to tackle the guilt he felt over enjoying his time at the airfield.

It was his father that broke the tension.

"Do you fancy staying for a cup of tea?" Clarke asked. He met Douglas' gaze without wavering, even as his wife was worrying her lip. "You'd never believe the hassle your grandmother's been kicking up."

Reluctantly, Douglas felt his spirits lift. He slipped his from father's hold and smiled bashfully, running his hand through his hair.

"I'd love to," he said. "Just for a little while... Arthur's cooking, you know."

Over the course of the next week, the letters poured in. Martin's hopes were knocked to the ground one by one, as every single flight-school he had applied to rejected him. Each one had Martin biting his tongue and swallowing his nerves, with shaking hands that tore up the letters and threw them away. Douglas was there for the first few. He wasn't there for the final ones. Martin informed him later on. It was only when the last letter came – the twelfth one – the one that he'd been waiting for without a trace of hope – that he let Douglas stay.

Douglas had been different since he visited his parents. Martin had thought at first that he was in a good mood. He had been smiling and not fretting as much – looking for flats in Oxford and checking his accounts while Martin moped – but then Martin realised what was actually going on. Douglas was _scheming_. There was something on his mind – something that made him take Martin out and about in Fitton, even though he was saving money, and that made him sit with Martin while he looked through _his_ accounts and the Fitton Herald's vacancies column.

When the last letter came, Martin handed it to Douglas. He sat on the steps of his back garden and watched as Douglas tore into it. He already knew what it would say, and he could see it in the slackening and then tensing of Douglas' expression as he stopped pacing and ground to a disappointed halt, breath catching in his throat.

There would be no flight-school. There would be no flying at all. There would be no perfect future as a pilot – no Captain Crieff anywhere close.

In his mind he heard Arthur reminding him that he could apply next year. It wasn't the same though. If he didn't get in now, his chances would be halved the next time. They might remember him and... Martin didn't want to think about it.

"Martin, I'm so sorry," Douglas said as he slipped the letter into his own pocket.

"I-it's fine, Douglas," Martin muttered. Arms folded in his lap – he had grown tired of holding Douglas' hand to seek comfort – felt like he was taking advantage and that the gesture was losing its romance with every time it was abused. "R-really... it's not like we expected any different, is it? I blew it. They don't want me."

"That's not true-"

"It _is_ , Douglas. They don't think I'll make a good pilot," he said. "I-I _can't_ now."

" _This_ year," Douglas insisted. "You'll try again next year. I'll even go into the waiting room with you next time. You can work at the airfield – get help from Herc. There – I said it. I'll even put up with prolonged exposure to _Herc_ for you. We'll get you some experience, and some money saved up, and then you'll apply again, get in – your plans will be set back a year at most. Just one year to get older and wiser."

He brushed the back of his hand down Martin's arm – he wanted to lean into it but he resisted the urge.

It was all well and good, Douglas giving him a lot of false hope. _He_ was going to Oxford in a few weeks, once he'd found a flat – he'd found one he liked, a shared flat with some other medical students, and was waiting to hear back. With his student loan and his parents back on board, he wouldn't need a job to support himself. Maybe he'd have trouble with some of the lectures, but once he'd sorted out a proper diagnosis for his dyslexia and found some _proper_ learning techniques, he'd be a doctor in no time.

"And what if it doesn't happen?" Martin asked, voice hard as he turned to stare at Douglas' cheek. He couldn't take looking him in the eye. "Wh-what if I don't get in? Wh-what if I spend the next year of my life working and waiting, a-and then I don't get in again? Wh-what am I supposed to do?"

Douglas didn't answer at first. He ducked his head and ran a hand through his hair. His shoulder bumped Martin's and he sighed.

"You'll get there one day, Martin."

"If you say so."

Again, Douglas was quiet. Martin wanted to ask what he was thinking – but he _didn't_ , because he didn't want to hear that everything would be alright. He had spent years being realistic – making plans instead of just dreaming – and it had fallen apart. That didn't mean he was going to stop trying. It just meant that he knew what lay in store for him.

It was only when Martin realised that Douglas had been quiet for an awfully long time that Douglas cleared his throat and spoke.

"Martin... you do remember what we agreed before? About us, that is," he asked. He waited for Martin's eyes to snap to him before continuing. "About us living on opposite ends of the country – about a long distance relationship."

Martin nodded slowly, bewildered and slightly afraid of the answer.

"Well... and this is just a thought – I've been thinking about it for a while now. Since I saw my parents actually. That's not to say that I didn't think you'd get in to any of these schools, but – I thought if you _didn't_ then..." Douglas continued with far more trepidation than he was used to. Martin knew now what he had been _scheming_. "What if... and I've given this some thought... what if you came to Oxford?"

"I _can't_ ," Martin replied, biting back his confusion. "I-I didn't get in."

"No – _no_ , not to _study_ ," Douglas insisted. With a burst of eagerness that Martin didn't think the situation demanded, he turned on the step and spoke with clear-cut, efficient gesticulations. "To _live_... come to Oxford with me. There's more than one flat open – we could get one together. You and me. I've been thinking about it, and-"

"H-hold on!" Martin sat as far back from Douglas as he could, throwing his hands up to silence him. "I-I can't just go to Oxford."

"Well why not?"

"B-because, I... I-I... what would you have me do for a year? Sit around and do nothing while you're studying and getting on with your life?" Martin didn't care that Douglas' face was falling and that he had stilled again. He shook his head and dragged a hand over his eyes, biting back a groan. "Douglas, I-I... I have to get a job. I need to get some _money_. I-I need to – I can't get a job in Oxford! E-even you had trouble! I-I need to stay here – I need to get a job, a-and work things out with Carolyn – see if she'll have me back at the airfield-"

"But you were coming to Oxford anyway," Douglas said.

Martin shook his head, bit his lip, and surged to his feet.

"T-to become a _pilot_!" he exclaimed. "N-not just to live with you."

"So you don't want to?"

"N-no – I-I mean, I _do_ want to live with you – b-but I can't just drop everything and go with you. I-I need to keep busy."

"But you're not going halfway across the country anymore," Douglas reasoned. "There's no reason for us to be long-distance. If you stay here in Fitton, a whole year will go by and I'll barely see you – I'll be bogged down with work."

Martin could see what Douglas meant. On any other day, it would have been sweet – romantic and touching – had he not just suffered the final nail in the coffin of his disappointment. Go and live together in Oxford? Rub salt in the wound more like. Douglas might be able to abandon all of his responsibilities – go to Europe for a month if the whim occurred – but Martin couldn't do that.

Douglas was staring up at him, still sitting with something between a scowl and a frown. He looked confused, which was a strange expression on Douglas' face.

A strange thought occurred, and Martin was too distressed to dismiss it.

"Wh-what if _you_ stayed?"

"What?"

Douglas kept staring.

Martin's nerve didn't falter. In fact, he was more alive than he had been in weeks.

"Stay here, in Fitton," he said. "Stay with me for a year."

"But I just got into medical school," Douglas gaped. For once, he seemed lost for words.

Martin wished immediately that he could take it back. It was a stupid idea. He couldn't ask Douglas to do that. Except... something hot and desperate bubbled in his centre. It was selfish and yet so tempting.

"Y-you could defer for a year – you can do that, c-can't you? Universities do that – they let you have a year to – t-to do things. I-I can get experience on the airfield and you – y- _you_ could too," Martin tried. He realised that he was pacing, breathing too hard while Douglas stayed where he was, and he brought himself to a stop. "We could be together, a-and if I get in, we can go to Oxford together a-and if I don't then... then that's that... isn't it?"

Douglas just stared at him, mouth open. The air between them seemed to still.

A lump formed in Martin's throat. If Douglas said no, then the matter was dealt with and Martin's foolishness was over. If Douglas said yes... then he had his boyfriend for another year, keeping him company and making up for the giant hole that had opened up in his life.

But Douglas did neither. Slowly he stood. His eyes never left Martin's face. He took a half-step towards Martin – and then stopped and shook his head, burying his hands in his pockets

"Martin... I can't make that kind of decision," he said, and Martin's heart fell. "I can't do this now." Douglas sniffed and shook his head again, swaying out of reach. He offered Martin one last grimace. "I'm sorry about that last school, Martin. I really did think you'd get in."

Then Douglas was gone, striding across the garden and then around the side of the house, out of sight.

Martin wanted to run after him. He had no idea what had just happened. All of his hopes and dreams had been smashed into pieces – finally after a week of disappointment – and... and did Douglas just agree to put his own aside?

He hadn't said no.

The guilt followed Martin through to the evening. He couldn't ask Douglas to put medical school off for a year when he had worked so hard for it. But he _really_ wanted to. Maybe misery just loved company, but... Martin rather liked the idea of having a year together, to cement their relationship and get some experience in the world – _together_. He couldn't imagine Douglas as a doctor, but that didn't mean he should hold him back.

In the end, Martin turned to the wisest person he knew. He had no idea what time it was where Theresa was, but she picked up on the fourth ring.

 _"_ _Martin?"_

"Yes, hello."

 _"_ _Oh, hello."_ There was a moment of silence before Theresa spoke again, crackling down the line. _"Martin... is everything alright? It's quite late."_

"I know it is," Martin replied. "I-I need to ask you something. I may have... I-I may have done something a bit awful, a-and I'm not sure whether... what I should do."

 _"_ _What happened?_ "

"I-I got rejected by all of them – all of the schools."

" _Oh, Martin – that's terrible!"_

"N-no – I mean, it _is_ , b-but that's not what I did," Martin hurried to reassure her. He fiddled with the cuff of his sleeve as he pinned his phone to his ear. "I might have... I-I might have asked Douglas to put his first year of medical school on hold and... a-and stay in Fitton with me."

 _"_ _Oh, Martin_..."

"I-it wouldn't be that bad, would it? I-I mean, he didn't say no – a-and he looked like he _really_ wanted not to be separated this year," Martin said. "I-it's not like he'd be missing out. H-he'd still be able to go next year."

Even as he said it, Martin's heart sank. It was a weak excuse. It was wrong. It was selfish and _he_ was thinking of nobody but himself. He knew exactly how desperate Douglas was underneath his careless facade. He was already regretting it.

" _Martin, you can't ask Douglas to stay in Fitton,"_ Theresa said. She sounded exhausted, but also exasperated. " _It's his decision but it's not a decision he ever would have made if you hadn't suggested it. Why would you even ask him?"_

"I just... I-I... we never thought that we'd be apart," Martin admitted. "I-I mean, I'm disappointed about not getting into flight-school-"

" _As you should be_."

"B-but I... I think I'd convinced myself that Douglas and I would be together, in Oxford. A-and then Arthur backed out, a-and I didn't get in – and then I got my head around being somewhere else, but now I'm not. I'm staying exactly where I am. Nothing's changing for me, except _Douglas_ is going away," Martin explained. He dragged a hand down his face. "I-I just... I don't want him to go away, Theresa. Maybe if we were both somewhere else, w-we could work it out. We'd be in the same place, but... I-I don't want him to get on with his life while I go nowhere."

 _"_ _You don't want your boyfriend to be successful?"_

 _"_ N-no, I _do_ ," Martin insisted. "I-I mean... God, I'm a horrible person, aren't I?"

 _"_ _I think if you love him, you'll let him go without kicking up a fuss. You shouldn't drag him down with you. You'll go to flight-school next year,"_ Theresa sighed. " _Martin, you're the most realistic person I know. You had a plan. It didn't work. You'll get a new plan. You'll be starting when I start – somewhere else, but at least you won't be alone."_

"So what do I do?"

" _You tell him you've changed your mind and that he's to ignore you,"_ Theresa instructed.

"O-or I could wait and see what Douglas' decides," Martin said, knowing that he was pushing his luck. Lying in the dark, he knew that it was hopeless. There was no changing anything. He felt like he was going in circles because he _was_ , and Douglas was moving forwards. "I-I mean... whatever he decides, that'll be what he wants... right?"

He was sure that he could hear Theresa rolling her eyes.

 _"_ _Martin... I can't tell you what to do. Not from all the way over here,"_ she said _. "You've always been so brave about this – I've never seen you back down from a challenge. You'll get where you want to go eventually. Don't be a coward now."_

When he hung up, Martin tossed his phone as far as he dared without it breaking. He pulled his arm over his eyes and groaned. 'Don't be a coward' was great advice when you didn't feel like your world was ending.

Douglas had one more day to secure his offer on the flat in Oxford. He had accepted his place at the university the moment it was offered, but that didn't mean he couldn't put it off for a year... he was seriously considering doing so after spending weeks watching Martin's confidence crumble. In spite of himself, he was drawn to the idea. The thought of medical school still tied his stomach in knots, regardless of the relief it brought, and it might not hurt to stay back and grow up a little more before he set off on the next leg of his life.

Maybe if he stayed, Martin's chances might improve this time next year. He adored the boy, and he couldn't stand the thought of him wallowing in self-pity in Fitton, missing him desperately when he could so easily be at his side.

It was the romantic in him, he supposed. Long-distance had appealed to him when they were both going off on their separate adventures – they could have reconvened and shared their experiences in an explosive kind of way. Now... there wasn't anything quite so nice about coming home to find that Martin was exactly where he had left him.

Douglas didn't let himself think about it. He had to decide. Defer for a year or go to Oxford – risk estranging himself and letting Martin grow to resent his success. His parents would be proud if he went – he would struggle, but the end result would be worth it.

Nevertheless, instead of giving Martin his decision or paying a deposit on a flat, Douglas was running around the airfield with Arthur and Martin. MJN's latest client was a celebrity, and Douglas wanted some photographs to sell to the Fitton Herald. Carolyn wouldn't let them on the plane, but when GERTI skidded down the runway, they were waiting. Ms McCauley wasn't in the papers often, so he supposed it would be worth a few pounds.

"This is a massive health and safety risk," Martin muttered as they scuttled along the edge of the runway.

"Oh, you worry too much," Douglas drawled, hefting his camera up. He led them closer, swinging the camera up to avoid the glare of the sun.

"W-we're not even wearing yellow vests!"

"We're down here all the time," Arthur chipped in.

"Not when there are planes on the runway," Martin retorted. "I-it's the middle of the day. We're not supposed to be here when it's busy."

Apparently, the grounds crew thought the same. As Ms McCauley stormed from the plane, with Carolyn on her heels, a man in a yellow vest chased the three of them away from the runway. They took shelter in the porta-cabin. Martin and Arthur hurried into Carolyn's office, hoping that the client wouldn't go that far. Douglas, however, was drawn to a halt by the notice board.

It had been cleared of all the random papers that had been pinned to it last time he had been inside. Since MJN had started taking clients, Douglas hadn't stepped foot in the porta-cabin for more than five minutes. Now that he was there, he could see the different items pinned to its surface, above the desk where the printer rested. There were take-away menus and business cards – for caterers and cheap companies – and there, right at the top, half hidden beneath a receipt, was the slip of red card that Douglas had given Carolyn months and months ago. It was the leaflet advertising the school production of Macbeth.

Douglas was frozen in place. It had been so long since he had thought about it. He had spent so many hours practicing – pacing back and forth, reading it aloud with his earphones in. If he had known Martin back then – if they had been so close – he could have helped him learn the lines.

But he had given it up – had it taken from him.

Douglas had given so much up to become a medical student. His part in the play, his time, his energy – he had given up more than he had gained, surely. It would be worth it... unless he wasted the next year on menial jobs. Martin was worth it – as frustrating as he was at times, Douglas adored that boy – the man that he would become as well, although he only knew him in his imagination, jetting about here and there – but...

Douglas had given _everything_ to get as far as he had.

The next hour passed by in a blur. Douglas wasn't really aware of what was happening until he was alone with Carolyn. Martin had taken his camera from him, and Arthur had practically chased down Ms McCauley, telling her he was her biggest fan. Carolyn was muttering under her breath and slamming the phone down.

"Honestly, I don't know what she was expecting," she muttered. "No – I don't know how she hasn't been poisoned yet. Less patient women than me work in the service industry."

"Carolyn?"

Douglas wasn't sure what prompted him to talk. All he knew was that Carolyn looked up, paid him a second's attention, and didn't pause in her rushing about. Douglas followed her step for step, pondering as hard as he dared.

"Can I ask you something?" he asked. "Without you making fun of me?"

Carolyn raised an eyebrow and looked like she wanted to say something. Instead she answered sensibly.

"That depends on the nature of the question."

"It's just..." Douglas steadied himself before asking. He glanced towards the door, praying that Martin and Arthur didn't come back. When he met Carolyn's eye again, he swallowed his nerves and took a deep breath. "Which should I choose? You've been married – you're the CEO of a company – which one should I pick? Is love more important or is getting a career? Because I honestly don't know anymore."

Carolyn stared at him for a moment. Then she tossed her papers onto the desk and looked particularly uncomfortable.

"I'm not really here for that kind of advice, Douglas."

"But I don't have anyone else to ask," Douglas insisted.

"If you asked Hercules, he'd say that love was more important," she said.

"But you're not Herc."

"No, I'm not," Carolyn agreed. She sighed and approached him. Douglas thought for a moment that she might place a hand on his shoulder, but she did no such thing. She might not have been able to reach. "Douglas, I don't know what you're planning, but I do know you've worked very hard to get into university."

"That's why I'm _worried_."

"My point, Douglas, is that while you career _should_ be hard work, your relationship should not. I'm not saying it should be easy, but you and Martin are too young to be risking your entire future for each other. You're too young to be asking each other to do that," Carolyn said. "If you're going to stay together, you'll stay together. Your place at medical school however won't wait, if that's what you're thinking."

"It could wait a year," Douglas murmured.

"No, it couldn't," Carolyn replied sharply. "Don't be silly. All that'll happen is that you'll spend a year making a _little_ bit of money, and putting off the rest of your life. If you want my advice, Douglas, you'll go and get your training, get a _job_ , and _then_ sort out whatever tiffle you and Martin have kicked up."

Douglas let her get back to work. It wasn't until he was outside again, looking out across the airfield, that he realised she was right.

This wasn't his world anymore. Carolyn's company was up and running. Arthur would probably end up working with her, if only until he worked out what he was doing with his life. Martin would hang around Herc for the next year, getting advice and work experience and then move on to spend the rest of his life on different airfields.

Douglas was destined for the medical world – for hospitals and cold white rooms. There was no point putting it off. There was no point giving himself a year to dread it more and possibly change his mind. He didn't belong there anymore.

Hurrying across the tarmac, Douglas found Martin and caught him by the arm. He guided him out of the way, into the criss-crossed shadows of the perimeter fence. Martin's brow furrowed and he looked both curious and frightened. Douglas steeled himself and gathered his nerve, but he didn't let go of Martin's arm. He anchored them together.

"Martin, I can't defer my first year," he said, refusing to give himself time to back out. "I can't _not_ go to university. I love you – I'll miss you – I'm so sorry that you have to stay here in Fitton and that you didn't... but you'll get there in the end. You're going to be a pilot and I'm going to be a doctor-"

"Staying wouldn't stop that," Martin interrupted, but Douglas cut him off with a wave of his hand.

"The longer I hang around, the longer I don't face it – it's scary, Martin. It's a massive change, even if it is a massive change that I want," Douglas insisted. He wanted to lower his voice, as if divulging a dirty secret, but there was no sense or point in doing so. "That's what I do, Martin. I put off things I don't want to face. That's why I never told anyone I was struggling – I could have got help with my dyslexia earlier, but I didn't because I was scared of change. I'll miss you, but I won't break up with you, no matter how far I go – but I've got to focus on my career. You understand that, don't you?"

Martin stared at him, eyes narrowed as if he were lost in thought. Then he smirked, just for a second.

"Yeah, I understand. I-I do, of course I do," he said. He ducked his hand and twiddled his thumbs, rocking on his heels. "God, Douglas... I don't want you to go."

"But if I do, will you still be here when I come back?" Douglas asked – _begged_ – praying that the answer was yes.

"Y-you know I... I can't imagine being with anyone else," Martin answered. He caught Douglas' eye and frowned to himself, making an effort to smile so that he ended up caught somewhere between – it wasn't handsome, but Douglas didn't care. The light in his eyes had faded since his letters had arrived, but now it was faintly humorous, bright with affection. "I-I can't promise I won't... I can't promise I'll be happy. I-I mean... I thought I'd be learning to fly, n-not hanging around here. I-I thought I'd be with you."

"But you'll wait?"

Martin took a deep breath. Douglas' heart froze in his chest.

"A-as long as you don't forget about me."

Douglas' face split into a grin.

"As if anyone could forget you."

They didn't hug. They didn't kiss. Martin bridged the space between them and patted Douglas' arm, and Douglas swung an arm around his shoulders. Douglas wanted to talk more, but he knew that if they did, it would be nothing but misery and disappointment. It was easier to pretend that everything would be fine.

Saying goodbye – although it wasn't goodbye really – happened so quickly that Martin couldn't remember what happened in the build up. In their haste to get Douglas into the shared house, to get him packed, to get him through the online registration, he had forgotten that they would have to say goodbye.

If he had remembered, Martin would have tried to redo the night that they had been caught by Mrs Richardson. He would have had them be together in every way possible – kissed Douglas until there was no doubt that while he wanted him _there_ with him _in Fitton_ , he cared enough to want the best for him, even if the best was in Oxford, far away. Nothing like that happened. They barely had a moment together, with all the rushing about.

Now, Martin stood once again on the pavement while Douglas was packed into his brother's car, getting a lift to the university. It wasn't evening, but a sunny morning. The very day itself seemed to mock his dejection.

Douglas was actually jittering – trying to play it cool as he entertained Arthur with a series of quick-fire anecdotes and tips on how to fix the various things that went wrong in the Knapp-Shappey house, which they had never been able to repair until Douglas had turned up with his DIY way of doing things. Still, he was nervous – eager to get on with the great adventure that was his future, and terrified of being anything less than perfect in doing so.

Finally, Douglas was less than a foot in front of him. They stared, and Martin's heart sat in his throat, wishing it could be let free – he held it in, kept it quiet, and forced himself not to beg Douglas to stay. It might be a month before they saw each other – maybe more – maybe not until Christmas, if the workload became too intensive. Douglas needed time, Martin knew, to absorb information – he might need it more than he needed time together.

Martin would have to make do with phone calls and video messages – company without the touch and the intimacy. Mostly, he ached at the thought that next time he sat in a silent room, he wouldn't be able to look over and see Douglas inching his way through a book that would take Martin three days to read, but that had taken him the best part of three weeks. It was the comfort and the laughter, which didn't come quite so easily when every conversation was just another way to fill each other in on what had happened recently.

Dependency wasn't good – Martin knew as much. There were times that he could do without Douglas sniping or making a nuisance of himself. There were more times when Douglas didn't need to be nagged.

Martin was going to miss him so much. Especially when his new life took off and he was left behind.

They stared some more, neither sure what to say. Then Douglas, lips twisted at the corners, stuck out his hand. Bewildered, choking out a laugh, Martin took it and shook – like they were old friends, or business partners.

"It's been a pleasure, Martin," Douglas said, voice lilted just so. It wasn't a joke. It wasn't a real goodbye. Douglas had no more idea how to say goodbye than Martin did, and it showed. He didn't let go of Martin's hand.

Martin let out another laugh, watery and hot around the eyes.

"I-it really has," he spluttered. "A-a real pleasure doing business with you."

Douglas nodded, mouth pressed into a grin line as if he were swallowing a thousand words. He gripped Martin's hand more tightly, so tightly it hurt, and Martin squeezed back. He brushed Douglas' floofy fringe out of his eyes, to that he had an excuse to get closer, and Douglas leaned into him. His arm was around Martin before he could pull away, vice-like and strong, and Martin pulled Douglas close, holding him against him until he had no choice but to breath in time with him, as Douglas' inhalations heaved his chest so much that they were impossible to resist.

Their foreheads touched, and that was all Martin was aware of until they were kissing, and kissing, and Douglas' cheeks were wet. When he pulled away, Douglas wasn't crying, but he looked like he might have been. He was wearing a smile as if he were obliged to do so.

Martin took a step back and squeezed his shoulder one last time, savouring the folds of his coat between his fingers and under his palm as he _squeezed_ – harder than he would have dared had the coat not been there to keep them apart.

They couldn't stay like this. One of them had to move on – move out and into the world.

Martin had always thought that it would be him. Douglas was perfect, in his own fractured way, but he lived for the moment he was in – in music, and art, and energetic bursts of love for whatever new thing had crossed his path. He didn't look to the future the way Martin did. Maybe that was why he was the one going out to meet it – Martin had committed the future so dearly to dreams that that was all it was now... a fanciful story inside his head.

"You stop that," Douglas said, nudging him playfully, and Martin was shaken from his reverie.

Martin's chest ached with such a warmth, such an achingly, painful sensation that threatened to launch him back into Douglas' arms. Instead, he swallowed his bitterness and allowed himself to feel the pride that had been festering in the back of his mind. As long as Douglas was happy, he would come back – and then they would have another go – when Martin had made himself into someone good enough, someone ready for flight-school, who didn't put his own needs before those of the boy he loved – then they would try again.

This was just another obstacle – unanticipated, but manageable.

"What are you thinking about?" Douglas asked.

"Being a pilot," Martin replied.

Douglas scoffed and his eyes seemed to glisten.

"Of course. Should have known really," he said. "You'll get there."

"I know. A-and you'll make an excellent doctor," Martin told him. He saw the way Douglas' smile quivered, softening into something more real. "Y-you're great with people. I-it doesn't matter how hard the academic bits are. Y-you'll be what everyone wants from their doctors – you'll make them feel safe, and cared for."

Douglas didn't have an answer for that. Looking at his watch, he reached for the car door and pulled it wider, so that there was room for him to enter the car. He caught Martin's eye and Martin knew that this was it.

"I should-"

"I-I know," Martin cut him off. Shoulders squared, he huddled against the crisp September air. "Call me when you get there, s-so I know you're okay."

Douglas beamed, and nodded. Then he got in the car. Moments later, he was gone.


	20. Chapter 20

Chapter Twenty

Before anyone realised that it was happening, six months were coming and going.

 ** _OCTOBER_**

Douglas settled into his Oxford flat easily, taking the second largest room and getting along with his flatmates. There was only one other medical student – old GW, he called himself – who was the sort of lad that would down a pint or two of lager and then treat the world as if it were a giant game of truth or dare. He and Douglas attended classes together, and he was hard-working enough to keep Douglas on track whilst remaining fun and reckless enough to stop Douglas from growing bored.

Freshers' week had left them both with killer hangovers, and Douglas had learned to pace himself since. Nevertheless, every weekend they – and the girls who had taken the largest and smallest rooms – trundled down to the pub on the corner, and then along to the brightly coloured bar. They were free for the first time in their lives and needed to let their hair down after the pressures of the week.

And pressure there was.

A month into his course, and Douglas still approached lectures with iron bars around his lungs. It wasn't being in class that was the problem. He could be attentive – he even arrived on time... _most_ of the time. Just like Martin had taught him, nearly a year ago now, Douglas packed his bag with a pad of paper, a case full of pens, and the course text-book. Anything else, like food and his phone, was an added extra that Douglas relied upon to keep him sane. Oxford was vast – all the university rooms made it feel even vaster – and sometimes Douglas had to stop in the hall and lean against a window sill to clear his head.

If anyone asked, he was admiring the view, or checking his texts. GW would clap him on the shoulder and chivvy him along, and Douglas would grumble about having to turn up at ridiculous times of the day.

He had sought out help in induction week. The Oxford powers that be had given him the option of approach 'helpers' in the library or accept various sheets of coloured plastic that were supposed to make reading easier.

Douglas did neither. Martin's methods worked for him.

He and Martin didn't speak as often as they once had.

There was so much else going on that when Douglas had time to relax, he ended up in the pub or asleep on the sofa before he had time to remember to call. In the first week, he had joined the musical theatre society, smirking to himself as he thought of what his parents would say – probably that he didn't have time to waste on that kind of thing when he had _learning_ to do.

Secretly agreeing with the stern voice in his head, Douglas remained backstage instead of taking up acting again.

More often than not, Douglas found himself thinking about home at the least appropriate times. He was thinking of Martin in his midday lecture, midway through October. It had been a week and a half since they had spoken, and now – sitting at the very back of the lecture hall – he had his phone in his hand. It was on silent, lighting up each time he distractedly ran his thumb over the screen.

The lecturer's words were loud and clear, but they moved so quickly that they washed over Douglas' head. This professor was one of the ones who spoke with his hands, and so couldn't use those same hands to write notes on the board. Every lecture, Douglas tried to write notes – to get down everything that was said – but after fifteen minutes, he lost the flow of the speech. He understood the concepts, but with the diagrams and the sheer mass of information hitting him from the front of the hall, he couldn't get it down at the same rate it came.

By the time he finished one sentence, twelve more had passed him by.

With each lecture that passed, the dread in Douglas' stomach ebbed and flowed and spread out along the line of his bones.

The fact that GW sat next to him without fail - feet up on the chair in front, pen between his teeth, jotting things down and putting his hand up to answer questions with a surprising clarity and insight – didn't help matters.

In the end, Douglas settled for doing what he had always done. He re-read the relevant chapters in the evenings that he didn't go out with his flatmates, re-wrote the notes where he could, and visited the library at lunchtime to fill in the gaps. He didn't want to ask GW for his notes quite yet, but he couldn't think of how else to keep up.

Douglas ran his thumb over the screen of his phone as the lecturer stopped to ask someone on the front row a question. If Martin were there, he'd be soaking the information up like a sponge and jabbing Douglas in the ribs to make him concentrate.

Giving in to the urge, Douglas tapped out a quick text and hoped that Martin wasn't busy.

The phone vibrated a moment later, and Douglas tilted his head down to inconspicuously check the message.

 _Hello to you too. Is everything alright? M x_

 _My head has never been so empty,_ Douglas replied, smiling to himself.

A response came back within seconds.

 _Are you in a lecture? Douglas, you're supposed to be listening!_

 _You know what I'm like, Martin._

 _Yeah, I do. Don't talk to me now. M x_

 _But I miss you_ , Douglas sent off.

Martin's message came after a full minute's wait.

 _Can we talk tonight?_

Douglas watched the lecturer pace back and forth, making wide motions that had nothing to do with the concise numbers and facts that he was spewing forth. He might have been asking questions. Douglas had no idea. He lowered his hand so that no one could see him replying to Martin's question.

 _It's Sally's birthday today. We're going out for drinks later to celebrate._

 _What about after? M x_

 _After that, I need to work out what this lecture's about. I've got the book. I just need to catch up and memorise the content._

 _Good. That's good. I'm glad you're focusing on something at least_ , was Martin's response.

Douglas scoffed under his breath, winking at GW when he shot him a questioning glance. Fondness eased his nerves ever so slightly, and he slipped his phone into his pocket. It was a shame that Martin didn't want to talk now – it might be days before he got another chance – but it was good to have even a minute of conversation.

Sighing, settling back against the hard back of his seat, Douglas watched the lecturer. He had let too much slip past him to keep up, but at least he was hearing snippets. Hopefully some of it would stick in his head. At the very least, staring at the anatomical diagrams that were projected on the wall, filling his ears with the sound of medical terminology, Douglas was beginning to feel far more doctor-like than he ever had before... albeit, a very unprepared doctor.

It was starting to get chilly out, with the leaves falling from the trees and making the ground slick underfoot. Fitton didn't do seasons well. It was damp and grim, and Martin couldn't sit with his dad in the garage without a thick coat on to keep him from shivering.

Martin had tried getting a part-time job, to get some money in the bank, but Fitton was a small town and there weren't any going. The vacancies that he _had_ found had come to nothing. He wasn't very good at _any_ interviews, it seemed. In the end, Martin had settled for working with his dad, from the van. His pride had only lasted so long. He didn't want to take money from his father, but he needed something.

It was a crisp October morning when Martin started to think that they could do so much more with the van. His dad could be everything from an electrician to a plumber, but they only ever used the van for transport. Now, he waited by the open back doors of the van for his dad to appear from the house. They were driving to the next town to rewire a newlywed's kitchen – Raymond liked to stand back and let Martin practice before taking over. He had even raised his rates so that Martin could shave some of the profits for himself.

"You ready, son?"

Raymond's voice reached the garage before he did. Martin stepped out of his path as he strode into the garage, toolbox swinging from one hand. He passed the box to Martin, knocking him off kilter ever so slightly. Dutifully, Martin placed the box in the back of the van and closed the doors. It was a simple task, but he did it every time to seem useful.

As Martin climbed into the front of the van and strapped himself in, he felt his father's eyes on him.

"Any plans for the rest of the week?" he asked as the engine rumbled into life.

"Hmm? N-no, I don't," Martin answered. He watched the garage disappear through the windscreen and the streets of Parkside slip by. In the past month, he had had more free time than he had ever had in his whole life. He had no idea what to do with it. Twiddling his thumbs, he shrugged. "A-actually, I might call Theresa. She's having fun in Greece at the moment. And Arthur's always about – h-his mum's letting him have the day off from scrubbing GERTI's floors."

Raymond scoffed, taking his eyes from the road long enough to shoot him a sideways glance.

"You never thought of joining him?" he asked. "It might be good experience for you being on the airfield. You know I love having you, but if you're applying again next year it might be good to get used to the atmosphere."

"I know, Dad."

"Come on, Martin, cheer up," Raymond instructed. He turned a sharp bend and headed out onto the bypass, towards the country road that would take them to a long day's work. "I know this isn't what you wanted, but it'll work out in the end."

"That's what Douglas keeps saying," Martin muttered.

It wasn't so bad, he supposed, spending time with his father. But it wasn't as good as Simon, who was working his way into the council. He swallowed his self-pity and forced a smile. His father obviously didn't believe it.

"Well, son, you're a good helper," he said. "I'll keep you on as well as you like until you start applying again."

In spite of everything, Martin was comforted.

 ** _NOVEMBER_**

The bar was louder than usual, alight in the November evening while music blared over their heads. Douglas rested his weight against a barstool, pleasantly tipsy and buzzing with his third or fourth drink in his hand. Tomorrow was the deadline for a paper – nothing that would go on his record, but it was never a good idea to get on the wrong side of their tutors – and Douglas hadn't come close to finishing it. He would do it in the morning, using the notes that he had slaved over that afternoon. For now, he needed to ease the stress.

GW was lying on the bar behind him, shirt pulled up to his chest, little shot glasses balancing precariously on his stomach.

"Go on – come on, it's fun," he was yelling over the racket. "You've got to take one from me, drink it off my chest, and then invite the girls over to do the same. They love it."

"I don't think that's true," Douglas drawled, brow arched as he snorted and leant his weight more bodily on the bar.

"Ah, well, it'll be a laugh then," GW replied. He chuckled to himself, knocking one of the glasses down and sending the liquid dripping onto the floor. "Come _on_ , Dougie – I've never done this before! Have you? Give it a go."

"I'll pass, thanks," Douglas said. He caught the eye of a dark haired, freckled girl on the other side of the bar, who glanced towards GW and raised an eyebrow. "I think _she's_ interested though. Lord knows why."

While GW became acquainted with the girl, Douglas watched the crowd. There were members of his musical theatre troupe across the room, belting out a song that _wasn't_ playing, out of tune and with a fair amount of clumsy swaying. He had grown fond of them all, working behind the scenes on the music for their upcoming performance – playing piano had come in handy, contrary to what his mother had once told him. This was more what he had expected medical school to be like. It was _fun_ – he was without any cares and for once nobody was expecting him to do anything except drink shots off their chest.

Douglas was caught by such a rush of cheerfulness that his phone was in his hands in seconds, desperate to share the sentiment with his closest friend. The call went to voicemail, and Douglas hastily decided what he wanted to say.

"Martin... Martin, my _love_... it's been _ages_. Are you still working with your dad? Not _now_ , obviously... it's night in Fitton... night here, too... I just wanted to call – I _did_ call, Martin... Martin, because I miss you... and I _love_ you... I wish you were here with me. Call me back, Martin – Martin, make sure you do... You know, Martin, I-"

Before Douglas could finish, the phone beeped into his ear and the message was cut short. He was momentarily annoyed, and then laughed it off with a snorted snigger. He had said all that he wanted to say. Martin wouldn't approve of him drinking before a deadline anyway – he'd have him back in his room, getting the paper done. If Martin were there, Douglas would have him back in his room doing far better things.

Still grinning to himself, Douglas allowed one of the lads from the musical theatre troupe to sweep him away from GW and into a rousing rendition of something that definitely wasn't what the songwriter had intended.

Martin slipped out of the engine just as it spluttered and growled into life. It was cold and dark outside, pouring down with rain that filled his ears. He heard his dad's joyous exclamation from within the van and hastily slammed down the top. Still dripping, he hurried back inside and shivered as the heater crackled pitifully.

"You're getting quicker," Raymond remarked, patting Martin's shoulder as he pulled away from the ditch that they had broken down beside. "You know, if you ever change your mind about being a pilot, you'd make a fair mechanic."

"I think you just want me to fill your boots," Martin scoffed, fighting to smirk instead of grimace.

It was becoming easier to think about where he could have been this time of year compared to where he was – jokes made it better, in a way. He was still helping his dad, putting off asking Carolyn if he could spend time on the flight-deck when Herc wasn't flying, to get his advice. Somehow, committing to working at the airfield again after quitting to start flight-school felt like admitting that he had failed. He hadn't failed. He was just postponing his success until he had pruned his confidence into something more palatable.

"You've got me there, son. I'd love to have you on board full time," Raymond replied. "Don't let that hold you back though. These are useful skills whether you're getting paid for them or not."

Martin hummed his acknowledgement and reached into the glove-box, where his dad kept the payments until they got home. They had been going over the books together lately, Raymond teaching Martin the intricacies of being self-employed – just in case, he said. Martin tried not to be stung, and instead enjoyed spending time with his father. His mother had told him to go out and spend time with people his own age, but the only one left was Arthur, and he was getting on with his life, probably at the airfield.

Martin didn't know really. He'd stopped going out as much as he used to.

From within Raymond's wallet, he pulled a stiff pile of pound notes. He counted them quickly, and then frowned through his confusion.

"Dad?"

"What's up, Martin?"

"Wh-why's there so much here?" Martin asked, slipping the money back into the wallet and tucking it away. "We only did a few hours work."

"Your tip's in there too," Raymond replied with a proud smile. "Mrs Finchly appreciated the extra help – and that you tidied up after us. And... I might have told her you were saving up for flight-school. Not boasting, or begging – I was proud. She's got a grandson about your age, going to university next year."

" _Dad!_ "

"What? It's not a secret, is it?"

"N-no, but..." Martin trailed off as he sagged. Being fussed over had been nice at first, but now it was starting to feel stifling. He wasn't six years old anymore. He didn't _need_ the pats on the back. "Fine... fine, b-but can you rein it in a bit?"

"Whatever you say, son."

No sooner had they arrived home, than Simon cornered Martin. He sat him down at the kitchen table, as if they were at a business meeting – although leaning across the table with such eagerness would have been inappropriate in a business setting. Martin realised sharpish that a 'pat on the back' was exactly what he was getting from his brother.

"Simon, I don't _want_ to work for the council!" Martin insisted. He wanted to get up and walk away, but manners and his mother's pointed look over Simon's shoulder kept him where he was. "I-I'm applying again next year. I asked you to look for _odd jobs_ – n-not to get me a career as someone's PA."

"You wouldn't be their PA, chum," Simon said, faint beginnings of a moustache bristling with indignation. "You'd be mostly running for coffees and putting things through the shredder. It would be a proper little position as well – I'm only interning at the moment, but they've offered to keep me on in the department. I could get you sorted easily."

"That's great, Simon. R-really, it is," Martin said, measuring his tone, hands touching the top of the table without landing hard enough to make a sound. Biting his tongue to stop from sound ungrateful, Martin nonetheless gave in to the urge to flee and rose to his feet, chair scraping as he did. "B-but I know what I want to do. I'm _going_ to be a pilot, eventually, a-and I don't want to waste anyone's time by committing to a job like that, wh-when I'm just going to quit in a few months anyway."

"It's such a good opportunity though, Martin," Wendy chipped in. "It's good of Simon to offer."

"I know it is, b-but it's not for me," Martin replied. He looked desperately around the room, and his eyes landed on Caitlin, feet up on the table, puzzle book propped up against her knees. "What about Caitlin? Sh-she's looking for a bit of cash – aren't you?"

"I'm not working for the council," Caitlin shot back. "No offence, Simon."

"None taken," Simon smiled. His eyes were on Martin again in seconds. "Really, chum-"

Martin was gone before Simon could finish his sentence. He shot past Wendy, fetched his coat, and called over his shoulder.

"Y-you know, I just remembered I've got to be somewhere," he called. "I've got to see Arthur! That's it – I-I said I'd meet him for um... for now. See you later!"

Once he was in the front yard, Martin had no choice but to text Arthur and ask him to meet him somewhere. He _had_ been neglecting his friend, and his parents _were_ worried that he wasn't socialising enough. They seemed to think that an extra year was a year to stretch his wings instead of getting his head down and working hard. Still, it would be good not to think for a while – to breathe, even if it _was_ almost below freezing outside.

Arthur met him by the park, bundled up in a coat, peering through the dark. He beamed when he saw Martin, hurrying towards him, but Martin sensed that he hadn't been planning on coming outside. In fact, he looked worried.

"You alright, Martin?"

"Y-yeah, I'm fine," Martin replied. "I-I just realised it's been ages since I saw you and I... sorry, it's late-"

"It's not that late," Arthur interrupted. "Mum's putting dinner on now – she won't let me cook anymore. Her non-stick pans haven't been very non-stick since I last used them. You can join us if you like."

"I-I don't want to impose."

"You wouldn't be," Arthur said. "Mum won't say it, but she's missed having so many people to talk to."

"To complain at, you mean?" Martin shot back, fighting a smile.

Hands in his pockets, he strolled alongside Arthur, taking note of the fact that Arthur seemed to be leading him back to his house despite Martin's refusal. After spending so long with nobody but his family for company, Martin didn't have the energy to fight it. There were still a few kids about on the street, and the chippies and corner shops were still bright and standing wide open, inviting people in from the cold.

"H-have you heard much from Douglas?" Martin asked after a while.

"Oh, yeah – he texts me loads," Arthur replied. "He asked me the same thing, you know?"

"H-he did?" Martin stammered. He sighed and shook his head. "He could call me... if he wanted to know."

"Yeah, but he's busy, isn't he? And you know how he gets distracted. Douglas forgets how much time is passing and he just gets on with things," Arthur said. He led the way across the road, through the exhaust smoke of a passing car. "That's why I've been texting him _first_ – he replies if you start the conversation."

Martin had to admit, Arthur was right. Douglas was so easily distracted – it was what had caused most of their arguments when they had first started studying together. He was probably getting bogged down with work and getting involved in all the social aspects of the Oxford university scene. He had received an interesting voicemail about a week ago, in which Douglas was definitely drunk. Martin had been pleased to hear his voice, but also slightly disappointed... drink didn't make Douglas unpleasant, just complacent, and complacent was the last thing someone as reckless as Douglas needed to be.

"You should come around the airfield some more," Arthur said, when they were nearer to his street. "Herc's got a new co-pilot, and he's not as keen on him as he thought he'd be. Nigel's alright, but he's a bit... he's very professional. Herc tries talking to me, but most of what he says goes over my head. I think you'd understand all the pilot jokes he makes."

Where Martin expected resentment, he only felt a flicker of interest. There was no harm in spending time on GERTI, he supposed. Cheering up considerably, Martin increased his pace and nudged Arthur's arm in a playful gesture.

"W-what did you say your Mum was cooking? I'm starving."

 ** _DECEMBER_**

When he arrived back for Christmas, Douglas was surprised that Carolyn met him at the door. There hadn't even been a long discussion about him coming to stay. He would pop in to see his parents on Christmas Eve, but after that he was staying in the Knapp-Shappey house until he returned to his flat in Oxford. Packing, he hadn't known what to bring back with him as he didn't know how long he'd be staying. Now that he was here, inside the familiar hall with his bag on the floor and his coat on a hook, Douglas couldn't imagine why he would ever want to leave.

The house was filled from floor to ceiling with Christmas decorations. Tinsel and wreaths hung where mistletoe hadn't been pinned overhead, and there were little light flickering in all sorts of colours along the walls.

"Arthur made the mulled wine, but it's not awful," Carolyn was telling him as he was led into the lounge, where the fire was roaring and terrible Christmas repeats were playing on the television. "He also made the biscuits, so I'd avoid them. Go on – sit down over there. I'll call him down."

"It sounds like you've already helped yourself to a fair bit of that wine," Douglas remarked as he dropped down on the sofa and breathed in the scent of seasonal baking.

Carolyn _did_ seem more cheerful. There was a sway in her step and smile on her face, and when Douglas turned around there was a glass in her hand. She shot him a stern glare that lacked some of its usual ice.

"Right you are, you little scrounger," she said. "I've got the whole of Christmas week off, and then a month full of bookings from some _very_ wealthy clients. It's all I wanted for Christmas – time to drink and be merry, I say."

"If you say so."

Supper was a comfortable affair, with plates in the lounge and everyone going about their own business. Arthur wanted to know all about Oxford, and Douglas was interesting in what Arthur had been getting up to now that he wasn't planning on becoming a pilot. They shared over a game of monopoly, which Carolyn graciously agreed to join. It was as close to perfect as Douglas had been in weeks, without work or lectures or social commitments to keep track of. The only person that could have made it better was absent.

When Douglas brought it up, Carolyn looked like she had something to say, but it was Arthur that spoke.

"Didn't you tell Martin you were coming back?" he asked, brow furrowing.

"Well, yes, I _did_ ," Douglas replied as he accepted the rent on his hotel property. "But I also said he didn't need to trouble himself coming to meet me at the bus station – and that he didn't need to rush around here if he had other things to do."

"Oh... then that's what he's done," Arthur said helpfully.

"I _know_ that's what he's done," Douglas grumbled. "I thought he'd... I didn't think he'd _actually_ do what I asked."

"I don't understand."

"Douglas has fooled himself into thinking he lives in a romantic novel. His lovesick heart has cleverly forgotten that Martin couldn't read between the lines if they were written on his own face," Carolyn explained, tossing the dice with a renewed vehemence, and grinning sharkishly as she took another Chance card. "If you wanted him to come and see you, Douglas, you should have said."

By nine o'clock at night, Douglas had to admit, he agreed with her. He tried not to be too disappointed. Had it been the other way around, he would have been waiting for Martin with a grand gesture of some sort – to show how much he loved him, but also because he had genuinely missed being close. It had been months since he had been close enough to touch the other boy. They had shared late night conversations and early morning greetings, but Douglas longed for a hug at least. Even _thinking_ about curling their fingers together felt strangely intimate, as his imagination brought him closer than reality.

He wondered if Martin still fancied him. Then he cursed himself. They were long past fancying one another. Besides, in their last video call, Martin hadn't been able to take his eyes from him. Douglas himself had been shocked by how handsome Martin looked when he hadn't seen his face in weeks.

It was near midnight when there came a knock at the door.

Arthur went to answer it, and then returned a moment later, telling Douglas that it was for him. As he passed through the house, Douglas held back a mounting flicker of hope until he reached the front hall, where the wind was gusting in from outside. When he saw who was waiting on the doorstep, he wasn't disappointed.

Martin was bundled up in a coat that looked new and was rather handsomely cut – a nineteenth birthday present from his parents, he had told Douglas over the phone – red-cheeked from the chill and grinning shyly.

"What are you doing here?" Douglas asked, coming to stand in the doorway. He slid his hands into his pockets so that he wouldn't reach out.

"W-well, I... I-I knew you were coming back, a-and I knew you didn't want me to come and see you, but... but I _really_ wanted to see you," Martin answered. He ducked his head to hide his face, before shrugging and nervously clearing his throat. "I-I don't know what to say now I'm here. I-I mean, I knew that if it was you, you'd have turned up with some big gesture. Y-you'd have sang some song and it would have been romantic-"

"Are you going to sing?" Douglas drawled, barely containing his eagerness to close the space between them.

After so long, he wasn't sure what to say either. Conversation was so easy when they spent every day together, but now – now it was easy to feel and hard to articulate, as if he were afraid that he might misstep. So he stayed on the doorstep, watching Martin hastily shake his head.

"N-no, no singing."

"So you're going to serenade me with stammers?"

Douglas could tell that Martin was biting his tongue as he sighed and gave an exasperated shake of his head. He swayed as if to come closer, taking a half a step towards him, and scrubbed a hand across the back of his neck.

"Oh, shut up, Douglas," Martin muttered fondly, eyes gleaming as his lips twitched upwards.

Without another word, Douglas abandoned his nonchalance and allowed Martin to pull him into a bone-crushing hug. His arms crushed like vices and Douglas relished the solid warmth of him pressed up against his chest. The low rumble of his own joyous laugh tangled with Martin's, and they almost lost their balance. It turned out there was no need to talk, and when they started, they shared as far back as their memories would go – Martin about his most recent jobs with his dad, and Douglas about the latest papers he was supposed to write.

"A-and you're getting on well with all that?" Martin asked, when they were inside and set up in the kitchen with hot drinks. The others had gone to bed, leaving them alone. "The workload, I mean. I-I know you said you are, but... it's not like you ever ask for help."

"I'm getting on as well as I ever do," Douglas replied. He saw the look on Martin's face and sighed, shooting him a sharp glare. "Martin, it takes years to become a doctor. It's not like we're being thrown in the deep end. I need to learn the theory... the theory is taking longer for me to get through than most people... but I'm getting there."

"Y-you're not working yourself too hard?"

Douglas snorted.

"No, Martin, I'm having plenty of fun," he replied.

"Good... well, good... i-it sounds like you're having fun," Martin said. He smiled bashfully, and Douglas watched jealously appear and then fade so quickly it wasn't worth mentioning. "So, what are your plans for the next few weeks?"

Douglas trailed his eyes from Martin's face down to the buttons of his shirt, smirking as Martin fidgeted under his gaze.

"I'm sure I can think of something."

It turned out that Douglas' plans involved a lot of lounging around and making the most of being at home – well, Arthur's home. It was difficult, during the day, to spend much time together without the others. Martin wasn't inclined to push the matter. He had missed hanging out with the others.

On Christmas Eve, Douglas went to visit his parents. On Christmas day, Martin spent the day with his family, thinking about how Douglas was getting on with Carolyn and Arthur. The day passed slowly, leaving Martin with a warmish glow before he even left the house.

When evening fell, Martin made his way over the Carolyn's house. Douglas met him at the door and the four of them, plus Herc – who Carolyn insisted that Arthur had invited, although she played soft opera in the background – shared mulled wine and played board games. Douglas had some sort of scheme going, but as it seemed to revolve entirely around getting his hands on all of the unopened jars of Christmas delicacies, Martin left him to it.

They excused themselves after a while, when the others were suitably distracted by late-night Christmas television.

Douglas caught Martin around the waist in the hall. He tipped his chin up and Martin looked up, catching sight of one of the many bundles of mistletoe that Arthur had hung around the house. Unwilling to put any real space between them, Martin run his hands up Douglas' arms and gripped his shoulders, rubbing small circles.

"Am I to take it that we're on the same page?" Douglas drawled, arching an eyebrow as he glanced at the mistletoe.

Martin scoffed and shook his head, even as he hummed into agreement.

"I've been thinking about you all day," he murmured, against Douglas' lips. Stealing a glance over his shoulder to make sure that nobody was coming, he kissed the curve of Douglas' chin and then prodded his chest with the tip of his finger. "I suppose you've had this planned since breakfast, h-haven't you?"

"I might have hung some leaves of my own."

"A-and yet it's been months since we've done this," Martin remarked. He tried to be nonchalant, but he ended up feeling Douglas stiffen under his hold. "I-I'm not... I'm not _complaining,_ I just... I _want_ you to do well, a-and I'm glad you're studying hard, I just-"

"Just what, Martin?"

"I-I wish you'd visit more."

Douglas nodded grimly. Then he plastered on a stiff smile and rested his cheek against Martin's. It was so much less awkward – this sort of thing didn't need talking over. Martin kissed Douglas again, and then let Douglas lead him upstairs, not holding his hand but trailing one over his shoulder as he passed.

They ended up on the bed in the guest room which had slowly become Douglas' room, not doing much, just enjoying each other's company. Martin had missed the soothing aura that Douglas seemed to give off even in the midst of his own troubles. He rested with his head on Douglas' shoulder, his arm slung around his chest, fiddling with his buttons as Douglas' foot tapped out a steady tune in the air.

Abruptly, Martin sat upright.

"Did you open your gift?" he asked, looking Douglas in the eye. He then scanned the room, searching for the present that he had handed over days ago, so that it would be under the tree come Christmas morning.

"I _did_ ," Douglas replied. He reached back, to the bedside table, and retrieved the large box that he had unwrapped, sans its lid. "You don't think you're getting ahead of yourself though."

"O-of course not," Martin snorted. "It's just a bit of fun."

And it was. The stethoscope was a cheap knock-off from a second-hand shop – it worked, but it was old. There were other things – the little tools that doctors wore, name badges, many sticking plasters – and to soften the joke, a small box of Douglas' favourite fudge, homemade by Wendy during her WI baking spree.

Douglas had bought Martin tough leather gloves for when he was out and about in the cold.

Martin was just touched that Douglas had listened to him complain and done something about it. He watched as Douglas extricated the stethoscope from the box and popped the buds in his ears. The attachment and the small metal plate were blown on and shined on his shirt, and Martin was sure he saw a playful gleam in Douglas' eye. He was probably picturing himself in a white coat, playing the superhero in whichever hospital he ended up in.

"I-I figured it wouldn't hurt to give you something to work towards," Martin said.

"It's good. I like it," Douglas murmured in return. Shifting slightly, he unbuttoned the top of Martin's shirt and slid the cool metal plate against his skin. Martin shivered and flinched back, grinning even as he swore, and Douglas sniggered. "Oh, hold still you..." He went quiet for just a moment, and Martin was enraptured by the concentration that lined his face. Then Douglas smirked and pulled the stethoscope away. "Very quick, Martin. Don't tell me you're getting over excited."

"N-not as excited as you," Martin shot back, moving his knee to make a point.

Douglas hummed – a warm growl that Martin felt through his chest – and the arm around Martin's waist tightened. He shifted down the bed again, turning until they were facing each other, warm breath puffing against cheeks.

"You know, Martin, it occurs to me that we started something, months ago, and we never finished it," he said, eyes wandering down to Martin's lips.

Heat rushed through Martin's centre and he did the same.

"You mean when your mum walked in on us?"

"Exactly. Care to start again?"

Instead of answering, Martin slid his hand past Douglas' cheek, trailed his fingers through his hair, and pulled him in for a kiss.

 ** _JANUARY_**

Douglas didn't stay for New Years. By the time January was half over, he wished that he had, if only to have a few more weeks of freedom before he was back to work – catching up on assignments even as more flooded in, and the lectures became more intensive, more in-depth, and more interactive.

He sat in his room, listening to the music from downstairs blare. There were books spread out on the bedspread, leaving a wide arc for him to sit in with his pad of paper, is computer, and another book – he was _sure_ he understood what he had learnt in the tutorials. Lectures were being kept to the minimum now and most of their work was tutorial based – which GW loved, and which Douglas found easier to focus on. It _did_ however mean that he couldn't scribble down notes, and when he _needed_ to, the information was lost inside his head, struggling to string itself into sentences.

His phone rested on the bedside table, on loudspeaker, so that he could hear Martin without having to bring it to his ear.

" _So wh-what exactly is it that you've forgotten?_ "

"I haven't forgotten anything," Douglas replied curtly. He sifted through the books until he found the right one. It seemed to line up with the anatomical content of today's tutorial. "I'm just... I'm having a little trouble working out what's relevant. I mean, obviously, it's _all_ going to be relevant at some point, but we can't all be like you."

" _What's that supposed to mean_?"

"It means I can't read every manual to hand and hope for the best," Douglas grumbled, and glowered at the phone, knowing that Martin could sense his distress. "I can get today's assignment done, get it _in my head_ , and then focus on expanding my horizons."

" _I-if you say so."_

For a few minutes, neither of them said anything. Douglas found what he was looking for and read slowly, carefully, taking in everything he needed to just in case it had nothing to do with what he was supposed to be learning. It would have helped if he didn't have so much of a headache – not a hangover, as Martin had suggested. It would have _helped_ if ' _the foot bone's connected to the leg bone'_ would stop playing over and over inside his head.

Douglas almost jumped when Martin spoke again, voice crackling over the line.

" _D-did you ever get that extra help?"_

Closing his eyes and gritting his teeth, Douglas fought to keep himself from snapping.

"Yes, Martin, I spoke to the woman in the library and she's sorting me out with learning assistance or whatever it's called," he replied. "Just to go over the final products though. I'm not getting help with the rest of it. Just editing and... yes, Martin."

" _Good – that's good. I'm glad."_

Douglas couldn't concentrate any longer. Reaching for his phone, he turned off loudspeaker and brought it to his ear.

"Martin, I need to go," he said. "I need to focus if I'm going to get this done by tomorrow."

" _O-oh, of course,"_ Martin stammered, audibly let down. " _I'll leave you to it._ "

"I'm sorry."

" _No need to be sorry_ ," Martin said. " _You're busy, I-I know. Goodbye then."_

"Goodbye," Douglas sighed. "I'll call later on, alright?"

But the line had already been dropped, and there was nothing but silence in his ear. With the music still thrumming through the walls, Douglas picked up his pen and pulled his laptop closer. As long as he stayed awake for a few more hours, he could do it.

Martin hovered in the porta-cabin doorway. Beside him, Arthur was whispering encouragement into his ear and nudging him in the ribs. He had access to anywhere on the airfield he wanted to go – Carolyn had Arthur working as steward on GERTI, running errands and hiding in the galley mostly, and the grounds crew were fond of him. It was his cheerful acceptance of his fate that persuaded Martin to get up and make a move.

Swallowing his pride, Martin approached Carolyn and cleared his throat.

She looked up and raised an eyebrow.

"Yes?"

"Uh, hi – um, hello, actually. A-actually, I'm not here for chit chat," Martin said, and then grimaced as he heard himself. "I'd like to apply for a job."

Carolyn didn't say anything at first. She looked him up and down, and then scoffed. Martin's heart sank and he felt his cheek burn. It had been a long shot anyway. He was about to walk away when she pinned something to the wall-chart and then turned back to him.

"Apply?" Carolyn repeated. "Martin, you spent god knows how much time working for me when I couldn't afford you. The last thing you need to do is apply."

"S-so you'll take me?" Martin asked, gaping.

"Take you to do _what_?" Carolyn asked. "I thought you wanted to be a pilot."

"I-I do, b-but I can't do anything until I'm in flight-school," Martin replied. He glanced over his shoulder, towards Arthur, and received an encouraging nod. Measuring his nerve, he tried again, taking care not to gesticulate too wildly. "I-I'm sending off the applications in a few months, a-and I think I'll do better in the interviews if I've spent some time... s-some time immersing myself in the goings on at the airfield."

"But, Martin, you know I don't have enough money to pay you," Carolyn sighed. She prevaricated for a moment, and then her eyes widened as if she'd had a thought. "Have you thought about asking up at the ATC tower? They could probably do you a proper apprenticeship – not a lot, but it should suit you."

Martin's stomach twisted as he wrung his hands together.

"Th-that's a huge commitment though," he said. "I-I wasn't thinking anything so..."

"Oh, I see. You've come looking for something less permanent," Carolyn said, with a shrewd glare. Martin's nerve failed, but Carolyn kept talking. "You realise that my company isn't a charity, Martin? I took Arthur on because I needed the help, and he'll work for pocket money – he gets all his food and lodging from me anyway. If I hire you, I expect you to spend these next few months working your fingers to the bone – for a _pittance_. Nothing like you're making with your father."

"Y-you've been speaking to my dad?"

"He thinks it's a good idea for you to be here too," Carolyn replied. "He was surprised you hadn't been in touch yet."

"S-so, I... I'm not sure what you're saying," Martin stammered. He looked to Arthur again and then back at Carolyn, lump in his throat, rocking on his heels. "D-does this mean you'll have me? I-I mean, I'll work twice as hard as ever – it won't be hard without Douglas distracting me. I-I'll scrub the toilets a-and recite the safety demonstrations-"

" _Martin_."

"Sorry – sorry, I'm sorry," Martin said quickly, raising his hands in surrender. He didn't stop though. "B-but that _was_ a yes?"

" _Yes_ , Martin. I don't know why you ever left in the first place."

If it hadn't been for Arthur piling in, Martin was sure that Carolyn wouldn't have put up with him throwing himself into a hug. Finally, he was making some headway... _again_. No more waiting around.

 ** _FEBRUARY_**

Douglas left his tutorial in a good mood.

The practical sessions were simple – nothing strenuous – and the demonstrations were easy to follow. Douglas could pick up skills without a fault, and this was basic anatomy and medicine – he finally felt like he was laying down the foundations of a doctor's mind. All he needed to do was keep filling his head until he had passed the exams and he could play the part. It would be no different than playing a part on the stage.

As he heard GW's squeaking shoes behind him, Douglas hastily stuffed his paper into his bag. His marks were fair – not perfect, not great, nothing like what Martin could achieve if he were left alone with the text-books – but still good enough to scrape by. His performance _in class_ and his personality stopped the professors from paying him too much attention.

An arm went around his shoulders as GW clapped his back and joined him.

"You're not heading off to your next production, are you?" GW asked, practically bouncing on his heels. "I love a good tune, you know me, but the lads go to pieces without you there. We're heading down the bar to begin with – you keep us in line 'til eleven, and I'll make it up to you in the morning."

"Learned to heal hangovers, have you?"

"Nah, I reckon if we get Rodgers when he's in a good mood tomorrow, we can get a peek at the syllabus – get ahead of the game," GW said. "If needs be, we can get the keys for the rooms upstairs – get some practice in before the practical tests. You have been studying, haven't you? Only I spent three hours looking at question Three-B yesterday and I swear we've never looked at it, but my head's full of facts about ligaments but I _know_ we've never looked at it."

Douglas scoffed and shook his head. He wouldn't know what they were meant to know until he went over the books tonight. If he was careful, he could squeeze in some time out with his flatmates and be back in time to re-write his notes by ten thirty.

By eleven forty-five pm, Douglas was still in the bar, pleasantly tipsy, trying to remember via muscle memory what they had learned that day. A fairly pretty girl was standing very close to him, and his eyes had wandered once or twice, but he didn't really process what she wanted until her hand touched his arm.

"Thinking hard?"

"Hmm? Oh, no," Douglas replied, slurring slightly. "Well, _yes_... I'm thinking about... incisions..."

He wrinkled his nose.

The girl did the same. She said something else, but Douglas didn't hear it. He _did_ see the look on her face though, and was pleasantly surprised. He wasn't quite so drunk, however, to forget that he wasn't as interested as he could be.

"I'm afraid I... I'm taken," Douglas drawled, still trying for a charming wink.

It seemed he succeeded, as the girl smirked and leaned closer.

"Are you sure?"

" _Very_ sure," Douglas replied. He laughed, to himself mostly, at the thought of what Martin would say if he were there. Then he met the girl's gaze and shrugged. "I'll buy you a drink though. See GW there – over there... he'd be _very_ interested in you."

The girl accepted the drink and wandered over to GW, and Douglas was left to forget about the notes that he was meant to be writing. He'd get to them eventually. Everything was going so well at the moment, he wasn't eager to spoil his mood.

As much as Martin loved a uniform, he _hated_ his steward's uniform. He especially hated it when he had to stand near to Herc and Nigel the First Officer and see their sleek, dark pilots' uniforms, with the gold bars at the wrists. In fact, he preferred the hardy, worn-out clothes that he still wore on jobs with his dad, because at least he couldn't see how far below the bar he had fallen when he saw himself in the mirror.

They were only taking a quick trip to Paris today, dropping a couple of newlyweds off and then returning within the hour. Carolyn was on board, as was Arthur, and Martin had been assigned various tasks.

Mostly he interacted with the pilots and helped Arthur make preparations before the flight, which Carolyn and Arthur saw to the passengers – this was only this second week on the job, and Martin appreciated the exposure to the flight-deck while it was in action. Herc was eager to explain what was going on – after he had convinced Martin that the CAA wouldn't care that he was in there – even if Nigel grumbled about it.

This morning, they had an hour to spare before take-off. The passengers were still on the ground, resisting Carolyn's attempts to urge them onto the plane, while Nigel was doing his walk-around. From the galley, Martin could see Herc in the flight-deck, flicking the switches above his heads and checking the meters. He had let Martin watch and interject while he did the paper-work and the flight-plan.

Now that that was over, Martin was back to gritting his teeth and pretending that he wasn't disappointed by his own position.

With nothing better to do, he slipped past Arthur and into the cabin. Slowly, he made his way from nose to tail, checking the overhead baggage areas and under the seats, to ensure that the life-vests were easily accessible. He checked every service button and made sure that the seatbelts didn't stick. One of the seatbelt lights flickered, but there was nothing he could do about that. He didn't want to even _try_ and test the oxygen masks. He wasn't sure that he could return them to their pockets if he did.

A click and flash snapped him from his reverie.

Martin whirled around to find Arthur wielding a camera.

"Wh-what are you doing?"

"Taking pictures," Arthur replied, giving the camera a little shake. "I thought you might want some good memories – or some proof in case the interviewers ask you what you've been up to this year."

"Oh, right... I suppose that's not a bad idea," Martin conceded.

He turned away, and was stopped again by Arthur's cheerful voice.

"So have you got any plans?"

"P-plans?"

"For today."

"Yes, Arthur, I got that much," Martin sighed. Abandoning his lacklustre check of the cabin, he wandered along the aisle. His uniform was slightly too big, and swished when he walked. He was almost ashamed for the passengers to see him, even though Arthur was dressed identically. "What's special about today?"

Arthur let out a sound that might have been exasperation.

"It's _Valentine's day_..."

Realisation dawned on Martin so quickly that he forgot his bad mood. He had completely forgotten what day it was – his calendar had been tossed in the bin when he learned that he no longer had anything to look forward to. In retrospect, that had been a bad idea. His mind leapt immediately to Douglas, who loved theatrical romance.

Guilt followed realisation.

Leaving Arthur to deal with cutting the lunches into little heart shapes, Martin hid himself away in the back row and pulled out his phone. He had turned it off, and every second that it took to restart annoyed him.

He started to type out a text, and then changed his mind.

Before he could call Douglas, he changed his mind again. Douglas might be in a lecture. He couldn't disturb that. But he couldn't nothing.

A text would have to do.

 _Happy Valentine's Day. Love you. Mx_

Martin paused a moment, and then added a bunch more kisses. Then he erased them. Then he put them back and sent it before he could change his mind again.

 _Happy Valentine's Day to you too_ , came the reply.

Martin smiled wanly as a trickle of warmth passed through him. It was hard to be truly cheerful when they were so far apart. He was ashamed to realised that he hadn't even thought of Douglas properly in days. He had been distracted, was all. It wasn't like _Douglas_ had called _him_ and begged to speak.

 _Where are you_? Martin asked.

His phone buzzed. The sound was extra loud in the relative hush of GERTI's cabin.

 _In a practical. Don't get your knickers in a twist though. I'm at the back._

 _Why are you in the back?_

 _Because I performed perfectly the first time._

Martin imagined that smug look on Douglas' face and smiled to himself. He heard voices outside, echoing metallically through the curved walls, followed by tinny footsteps on the stairs. He hastily typed out another message.

 _We'll talk later?_

Douglas' reply was immediate.

 _Definitely. I love you too. XXX_

 ** _MARCH_**

"But yeah, things are brilliant here. I love being steward. I get to go all over the world, and I get to work with Mum and Herc, and Martin on the short trips," Arthur said, from the tilted screen that Douglas had propped on the corner of his desk. "Martin's good at it, but I don't think he's as dedicated as I am – he hasn't wanted to go on any of the courses that Mum's signed me up for on understanding people, to make me a better employee."

"But Martin's alright?" Douglas asked.

He sat on his bed again, glancing at Arthur from a distance as he trudged through what was closer to an essay than he had ever hoped to get again. The deadline was soon and he didn't even have all of his references yet. He knew what he wanted to say, it was just taking far too long. The throbbing behind his eyes was no help.

Add to that the fact that he couldn't stop thinking about Martin, and he was completely distracted. It wasn't the _good_ kind of thinking about Martin. No, it was the concerned kind, which came from weeks without seeing his face or hearing his voice. They shared quick text conversations, but there was so much that couldn't be said in a few lines, and that was all either of them seemed to have time for nowadays.

When Douglas had been tipsy enough to say as much to GW, GW had said that people drifted apart.

Douglas had disagreed, and then thought about it throughout the night. He didn't _feel_ any differently about Martin, and Martin still said he loved him each time they texted, but... it was starting to feel like they were falling out of each other's gravity.

They weren't, obviously. Douglas was just in dire need of something other than work and drunken nights out.

He didn't have time to get away.

"Martin's fine," Arthur answered. His brow furrowed, freezing momentarily on the screen before his face caught up with his voice. "He's getting money, he's working with us and with his dad, he loves being on GERTI – same as always really. Why? Hasn't he told you all this himself?"

"He has," Douglas replied. "I just wondered if anything had changed."

"Since we last talked?"

"Since _Martin and I_ last talked."

Arthur spoke with him most days, in one way or another. It was a habit born in childhood and not easily shaken. Friendship was easy to maintain. Not like what he had with Martin. Right now, he and Martin were living completely separate lives and struggling to remember that the other wasn't involved.

"No, well... not really," Arthur said. There was a moment in which Douglas thought he might be thinking, in which Douglas grumbled and had to go back and reread the same paragraph he had already edited twice, and then Arthur spoke again. "Everything's sort of fine up here. Is there something wrong in Oxford?"

"Nothing wrong in Oxford, no," Douglas murmured.

"You're not having trouble with the other medical students?"

"Nope."

"Do they all look like baby doctors?"

Douglas looked up from his paper and raised an eyebrow at his laptop. He didn't know if Arthur could see from across the room, but he must have understood the silence as his hands came into view in a hearty shrug.

"I don't know what you want to me say, Douglas."

"What about his applications?" Douglas said more determinedly. He turned and left his paper and pen, so that he could look Arthur in the grainy eye. "How's he doing? Is he still applying? He's been very hush-hush about flight-school."

"Oh, yeah – he's applying to all of them again," Arthur replied. His voice lost some of its bounce. "I would have thought he'd told you about that."

"Did he tell you?"

"No..." Arthur trailed off, then seemed to have a brainwave. "Do you think he's worried he won't get in?"

"Probably," Douglas agreed. "But he's trying so..."

Douglas realised as he fell silent that he _should_ be discussing it with Martin. He shouldn't be using Arthur as a go-between. Martin had been doing the same, he knew. The first thing Arthur had said to him when he had appeared this evening was that Martin said hello. Even Theresa had passed on things that Martin had said to her, as if she thought that Martin hadn't said the same to _him –_ she was far more perceptive than Arthur. If she thought that Douglas needed filling in, then she must be right.

Glancing down at his paper and the books spread out before him, Douglas swallowed back a knot of dread. It wasn't even like he didn't know what to write. The very thought of anatomy right now made his stomach turn. He didn't want to hear the names of any body parts or the chemical make-up of any drug again for the next year... but he had a nine am lecture the next morning.

In the end, Douglas' heart won over his head. He left his bed and crossed the room to his desk, plastering on a smile for Arthur's sake.

"Arthur, I've been terrible," he said. "I haven't even asked about Tiffy."

At that, Arthur grinned and went slightly pink. He reached for his phone and brought up a picture, which he held up to the camera. Douglas couldn't see what it was through the pixels, but it didn't matter, Arthur was talking already.

"She's great, Douglas – really great. She's already got a job as well. She said she was really proud of how I'd got one too, and she said if I wanted to work hard at it, I could make this a permanent career," he said. "I know she said she wanted to take the show-jumping professional, but she's got into a training scheme at the local salon."

"And your mother?" Douglas asked.

"Mum's going mad with power..."

Trying to put everything else from his mind, Douglas sat back and let Arthur talk and talk, enjoying hearing about home. He wished he could be back in Fitton, even if it wouldn't get him anywhere in life.

"Use your bedroom floor, Martin! You can't have the whole kitchen to yourself!"

" _You_ use your bedroom floor!" Martin yelled back, glaring at his sister across the kitchen table. "I-I need to lay out all my paperwork, work out what I'm sending to each school, a-and get my applications properly sorted before tomorrow."

"You did this last year," Caitlin snapped. She folded her arms and glared just as hard, cheeks red. "I need the room."

"What are you even _doing_?"

"I'm writing my _CV_ ," Caitlin growled. "I need to get the Easter vacancies."

"You're still in school!"

" _You're_ not!"

Martin wasn't sure how to respond to that. His chest heaved as his hands clenched at his sides. Thankfully, Wendy walked in at that moment, tutted and rolled her eyes, leaving him lost for words but confident that he would get his own way.

"Honestly, you two," Wendy tittered. "Aren't you a little old to be bickering?"

"I'm not bickering!"

"A-and I'm not..." Martin stopped himself, unsure of what he had been going to say. Instead he marched to the table's edge and thrust his hands down over his laptop and his file of former applications. "I need the room, Mum. I-I put off sending these out until the last minute, b-because I thought maybe last year I looked too eager, but I've got to do them _now!"_

 _"_ I'm applying for jobs I actually have a chance at getting," Caitlin sniped.

Martin shot her a withering glare.

Wendy simply raised a hand into the air in front of each of them and sighed.

"Honestly, I don't know why you both don't just share," she said. "Move your things to _one_ side of the table and make do with each other's company."

"She's distracting me!"

"He's driving me mad, tapping and muttering!"

The argument came to nothing. By the time Martin was typing up his proposals and personal statements, one each for each flight-school, he was silently fuming. A part of him hoped that the anger would make his applications more impactful. If Douglas were there, he'd write them with panache.

The only thing that stayed the same was the reference at the bottom of each application – Carolyn's contact details, there to vouch for his personality and reliability.

Unlike last year, Martin didn't have the sweet bubble of hope to keep him going. He didn't have the buoyant heat of romance keeping him happy no matter what happened, making the time pass like the wind. All he had was the fiery determination that he was _going_ to get in if it killed him. He was going to be a pilot whether they wanted him or not. They wouldn't reject him twice – not all of them. They would see that he meant business and... and he needed to get it right.

Martin deleted another line and rewrote it, following Theresa's advice and trying not to sound like he knew more about aviation than whoever would be reading his application.

Even the Spring heat and the glimmer of long-gone rain on the window was annoying him. Caitlin's little huffs grated on his nerves. When his phone let out a high-pitched bleep, Martin very nearly swore at it.

The text was from Arthur.

 _You still coming to lunch?_

Martin glanced at the clock. It was nearly two o'clock in the afternoon. His stomach grumbled. He looked again to his laptop's screen and made up his mind, firing off a quick text.

 _Sorry, Arthur. Maybe tomorrow._

There was no time to waste. This year, there would be no messing around.

It had been a long six months.


	21. Chapter 21

Chapter Twenty-One

Martin sent off his last applications early in the morning. Daylight poured hot and crisp through his bedroom window, and even though his limbs were heavy with a familiar dread, Martin was very nearly cheerful. He slammed down the lid of his computer and sat back, listening to the creak of his chair as he pressed his hands together over his lips. Then he let out the breath he had been holding.

If he didn't get in, then he was in the same position that he was in now. If he did, then his life was finally back on track.

For the first time in months, when his dad called through the house that he'd polish off breakfast unless the seats around the table were filled, Martin vacated his bedroom with a skip in his step. He even tapped one of his models and let it swing on the way. When he had shared some small talk with his family – and listened to Simon waffle on and on about a potential promotion – Martin hurried outside and made his way to the airfield, dressed in his steward's uniform of ill-fitting trousers and a waistcoat. He didn't even grimace at himself in the mirror.

Even though he wasn't being paid anything more than a pittance – and far below minimum wage on the basis that he was an intern and not an employee – Martin was learning to enjoy working on GERTI. He had spent months feeling like he was on the wrong side of the flight-deck door, but now he could appreciate that this was a stepping stone. He was sometimes allowed to sit in the jump-seat and listen to Herc and Nigel as they talked to ATC, and during take-off when Nigel wasn't in a strict mood.

When he wasn't doing that, he was in the back with Arthur.

Today they were flying to Pisa and back with a group of elderly clients who were on some kind of European bingo tour.

For the first hour or so that he was there, he and Arthur hung around the porta-cabin, not doing much of anything. While Arthur lay back with his feet up on the tattered sofa, Martin spun around on the wheelie-chair, and it was just like old times.

Then the baggage turned up and, under the watchful eye of a member of the grounds crew, they stowed it away in the hold. Carolyn didn't let them greet the clients – she never did. Apparently they needed to see a face that they trusted when first approaching the company, and Martin had to concede that neither him nor Arthur instilled much confidence. It would be different when he was in his _proper_ uniform, with epaulets to prove how capable he was, but for now he could accept working behind the scenes.

One thing Martin never did was serve the pilots coffee. That was _Arthur's_ best thing. He watched from the galley as Arthur wobbled slightly but stayed on his feet, delivering the drinks without spilling a single one.

"Thank you, Arthur," he heard Herc say.

The he watched the Captain reach for the intercom, and the metal box beside his shoulder buzzed.

" _You alright in there, Martin?"_ Herc's voice was grainy but cheerful. " _Not coming up front today?"_

Martin pressed the button and spoke into the speaker.

"I might later. I-it's quite busy back here at the moment," he replied.

" _Alright then. Whenever you're ready_."

A moment later, Arthur reappeared at his side, rubbing his hands together eagerly. His eyes flickered towards the cabin and his expression adopted a more determined elasticity. Catching his gaze, Martin knew that he was feeling the same determined dread – the anticipation of a challenge that could go horribly wrong.

"You ready?" Arthur asked.

"As ready as I'll ever be," Martin replied, thinking of the legion of old ladies that awaited them. They had cooed over them both when they arrived, pinching Arthur's cheek as he wasn't quick enough to duck out the way.

They were even keeping Carolyn busy. She hadn't been back into the galley since take-off. The ladies filled every seat, and most of them had proved quite the conversationalists, even though most of them weren't listening to one another so much as making side-eyed quips about their misspent youths and each others' ailing children.

About half way through the flight, while Carolyn was having a heated discussion with the woman in the front row, and Arthur was pouring elderflower water into plastic glasses, Martin found that he couldn't hold his tongue any longer. It wasn't like he had been keeping anything quiet – more like something had been sitting under his skin and he was itching to share it. He waited until Arthur was two thirds of the way along the aisle before wandering over, pretending to check the baggage compartments.

"S-so I sent off my applications this morning," he said. "All I can do now i-is wait."

"That's brilliant, Martin," Arthur replied. He was bright and sunny as he ever was, thrilled to be surrounded by so many people – especially people that called his handsome and complimented his enthusiasm. "Do you think you'll get in this time?"

"W-well, that's kind of the point," Martin said, eagerness dimming slightly as they swapped places, squeezing past one another without going so far that they couldn't talk. He wasn't sure what kind of reaction he had hoped for. Plastering on an enduring smile, he followed Arthur a little way. "Wh-what about you? This is the time of year you could plan ahead."

"Actually, I think I'll stay where I am. I'm really happy here," Arthur said. He grinned at an old lady with hair dyed dark, and poured her some water. "I just love all the people and the flying to different places."

"Really?"

"Yeah, and I reckon if I do really well, and become a proper steward, Mum'll start letting me make decisions," Arthur continued.

"What sort of decisions?" Martin asked, biting back an amused smile.

"Well, the safety demonstrations a bit boring, isn't it?" Arthur said. He glanced over Martin's shoulder, glancing at his mother before lowering his voice and going ever so slightly red in the face. "I think maybe, if I'm good, she'll let me write a new script for it. I've got loads of ideas about how to sound more professional."

"That sounds... w-well, it sounds great," Martin replied. He could just imagine what sort of thing Arthur thought was professional. He had already spent most of last week fashioning himself a hat out of paper.

"It _is_ great," Arthur agreed wisely. "I didn't take English A-Level for nothing."

Leaving Arthur to his thoughts, Martin wandered along the cabin some more before ducking into the galley. If anyone asked, he was checking the catering instead of heading onwards to join Herc in the flight-deck. His mind was elsewhere, tangled up in the churning in his stomach. It wasn't excitement and it wasn't dread.

He could just imagine what Douglas would say if he heard Arthur... could _almost_ imagine. It had been so long that he wasn't always sure anymore. It occurred to him then that that was what he had wanted when he had told Arthur about his applications – Martin wanted to know what Douglas thought. He wanted to hear his voice and see what he had to say. A year before, they had been so close, so filled with camaraderie.

Now, Martin wasn't certain.

He'd call Douglas tonight, he decided. He had made the decision entirely on his own, without anyone else's help, but this... he wanted to share this, even if he wasn't sure what to expect. Maybe they could have a laugh over the passengers as well.

Martin got back to work with a nervous knot of warmth in his chest.

If Douglas heard one more person speak, he was going to scream. He was doing his best to be outwardly mellow, to smile a strained smile in the right places and respond coolly when talked to, but inside he was itching to get home – get home and get his head down so that he could ease _some_ of the weight that was pressing on the inside of his skull.

It was with this in mind that he excused himself from the theatre troupe's practice, giving one last flourish on the piano before making his way back to his flat. He dodged GW's attempts to ask if he was alright – the bags under his eyes were from lack of sleep for which they were both responsible, and it had just been a long day in general. When he reached his room he resisted the urge to collapse on his bed and instead went to his desk, where he laid out the books and the papers and opened his laptop just in case.

He had to write up the practical they had done two weeks ago. He could remember it clearly – could recall the way he had wrinkled his nose and blinked through the headache – more out of disgust than any real difficulty with the subject matter. What was harder was finding the right words – finding the right structure on the page once he had those words. If his tutor wanted him to explain it out loud, Douglas was sure that he could have done a good job.

He wanted it in ink.

Douglas knew that he would have an easier job of it if he wrote in his own handwriting and _then_ typed it up, which meant twice the work.

At some point in the past month, Douglas had gone back to his methods of old – he had retreated into Martin's revision techniques. Now his walls were plastered with 'key words' and explanations which he could recite when prompted. There were diagrams on the ceiling above his bed, which made him glad that he didn't currently have anyone nearby that he could invite over for the night – even Martin would have trouble concentrating with _those_ pictures looming overhead.

Douglas' mind wandered – it had been so long since he had... at first he had missed the hand holding. Now he missed the kissing and so much more. Then Douglas cursed aloud and gripped the pen more tightly, etching notes into the page.

They had barely talked in ages, he and Martin. Douglas wasn't even sure what he would say. There was nothing Martin could do to help. Lately, when they did speak, Douglas felt like he listened to what was going on in Fitton, missing the place desperately, then reported his lectures and tutorials and his nights out with his flatmates like reading from a newspaper – and then they ran out of things to say.

It was impossible to tell whether he would be doing better with Martin there or not.

Then, speak of the devil – Martin's icon appeared at the bottom of the screen and the video-call dial-tone grated on Douglas' nerves. He was pleased to see him –of course he was – but he couldn't put down his pen and now Douglas couldn't concentrate. He ached to just collapse into Martin's arms but Martin was so far away and saying so left a sour taste on his mouth.

It wasn't fair.

So Douglas carried on with his work, humming and 'ah'ing as Martin described a flight out to Italy, bright and vaguely cheerful, with something else on his mind. Douglas almost hoped that he didn't expand on it, in case he had to pay him proper attention and set himself back another hour.

He really needed to sleep.

And then Martin said something and Douglas felt himself sigh – bone-deep and weary and a little bit frustrated – even as he nodded. He didn't turn his eyes to the screen as he scribbled away, sensing his written articulation slipping.

"So I-I... I just sent them," Martin was saying. "It's all done and dusted now. All I can do is wait a-and see if they'll have me this year."

"Good... good, that's fine. Well done, Martin," Douglas muttered. He had to be careful not to let his nose touch the page, in case Martin see how engrossed he was. After a moment's silence, Douglas was distracted enough to realise that Martin _could_ see, and that he needed to answer quickly. Clearing his throat, he shot freckled face on the screen a hasty glance. "I'm sure you'll be fine. Nothing to worry about."

"You don't think that at all," Martin replied, an edge to his tone despite the glumness. "Douglas, is this a good time?"

"Yes, it's a fine time, Martin," Douglas tried not to snap.

No time was a good time. If they didn't talk now, they wouldn't for ages. He'd wanted comfort, not more stress.

"I can see it in your face," Martin insisted. From the corner of his eye, Douglas could see him shifting to sit nearer his own laptop, expression grainy. "I-I was expecting a bit more enthusiasm, you know? A smile, maybe?"

"I _said_ well done," Douglas sighed, through gritted teeth. His hand was beginning to ache but he didn't dare stop, even as he lost the train of his thoughts. "Trust me, Martin. I've just got a lot on my plate. I _am_ listening."

"Y-you don't think I'll get in," Martin said, and this time the sadness in his voice was undeniable. Douglas' hand stopped moving and his turned his eyes to the screen, where he could see Martin starting back at him. Could he see how hard he was trying not to frown? If he could, Martin didn't mention it. "I-I know what you're thinking. This is just like last year, a-and it's not going to be any different."

"Maybe that's what _you're_ thinking."

"M-maybe it is," Martin stammered. "M-maybe I thought you'd..."

"That I'd what, Martin?" Douglas shot back. He gripped his pen so tightly that it hurt. "I'm behind you one hundred per cent of the way, but I don't know what else you want from me. I'm miles away – I've got all this – _this-"_ Douglas threw his arms up to encompass the mess of notes atop his desk. "I'm sorry, Martin, I really am, but my problem is a little bit more immediate than yours right now."

" _What_ problems?"

"What do you mean _what problems_?" Douglas exclaimed.

He sucked in a heaving breath. His hand shook where the pen cut into his palm, and he made a pointed effort to get back to his notes. He couldn't remember what he was supposed to be writing. He could hear Martin spluttering all the way from Fitton.

"Y-you haven't _told_ me anything," Martin said. "I-is there something wrong?"

" _No_... there's nothing wrong," Douglas muttered. He dropped his head onto his non-dominant hand and tried to recall where he had been.

"Th-then what are these problems that you're not telling me about?"

"I'm not _telling you_ , Martin, because you're too busy worrying about your jobs and your applications," Douglas seethed. "You're miserable enough as it is – is it too much to ask that we talk about _nice_ things for once?"

Martin didn't respond.

Then he kept not responding, and Douglas couldn't look at the twisted, miserable expression on his face any longer. He turned back to his notes, doing nothing more than staring at the irritable blur that the words became. He could almost hear the way Martin used to tap his pen when they studied together, even though there was nothing at all – not even music from the other rooms – to distract him.

Martin took a deep breath, and Douglas' heart sank with relief at the chance to argue it out and apologise.

"I-I think we should take a break."

Douglas thought the world stopped for a moment. Just a moment, then it returned, crashing down as his agitation was washed away by a downpour of sheer cold – his pen hit the desk as his brow furrowed and he turned to see Martin's face. There was no pleasant flush, just pale skin stark against his freckles and a watery frown.

"What?"

"I-I think we should give it a rest – us I-I mean," Martin said, choking momentarily on a lump in his throat.

Douglas shook his head.

"You're breaking up with me?"

"N- _no_! No, I'm not – I-I love you, I do – I-I want to be with you-"

"Then what are you going on about?"

"I think we should break – t-take a break, a-and then... and then come back together, wh-when it's all over, f-for both of us," Martin explained. His voice was like nails. "I-I don't think... w-we're not doing this very well, th-this couple thing. N-not when we're so far away, a-and it's just causing more stress-"

"W-we're just not talking enough," Douglas cut across him.

His voice caught in his throat. He leaned towards the screen, as close as he dared, almost gripping the side of the laptop but he couldn't go closer. For once his head was completely clear and yet it was screaming, threatening to collapse inwards.

"T-talking makes it harder," Martin said, shaking his head. "I-I was so nervous calling you today, e-even though I wanted to tell you about the applications. D-don't tell me you don't... don't tell me it's not easier to just let it be, Douglas."

Douglas sniffed, eyes burning as he shook his head more frantically. His mind leapt to how much he had dreaded Martin calling, just to avoid the strain of having to make conversation with everything else that was piling up. But without Martin – without the look in his eyes when he saw his face and the warmth his cheeky smirk – his fond exasperation – Douglas didn't have anything to look forward to. Being a doctor was a sour prize – it was more hard work than he had ever anticipated.

"Martin... becoming a doctor takes _years_... becoming a pilot could take just as long-"

"I-I _know_..."

"Th-then how can we ' _come_ _back_ _together'_?"

"I-I don't _know_ , Douglas," Martin insisted. If Douglas weren't aching, trembling and holding his tongue as best he could, he wouldn't know that Martin was doing the same on the other side of the screen. "B-but I... w-we'll still be friends – w-we'll _always_ be friends. W-we'll always see each other a-and talk, but we... this is too hard, Douglas."

"But I love you."

"A-and I love _you_ ," Martin exclaimed. "B-but you get it, don't you? I-I can't sit here and snipe at you when you're... it's not like when we're here a-and we can fix it quick. I-I can't be annoyed at you from so far away. Y-you get it, don't you?"

Douglas wanted to say _no_ – no, he didn't get it. He didn't want Martin to go. He'd be nice – he'd be the best he could possibly be. But Martin was still talking and Douglas kept shaking his head.

"A-and I know you're trying hard – I-I know you're trying to be the best you can, a-and you can't do that with me distracting you. Y-you've got to prioritise-"

"Fine!"

Douglas didn't know what made his say it, other than the sickening flurry of ice that ran through him. Martin's shocked eyes, wide and glistening, taunted him from the screen and he scrunched up his nose to stop from letting tears fall. He didn't want to take a break. He didn't want to lose the only reason they really had to talk anymore – not when he was so far from home.

"W-what?"

"I said _fine_!" Douglas repeated. Sniffling, refusing to admit it, he gave in to a flush of anger – at himself or at Martin, he didn't know. "Let's break up – thank for checking in!" he snapped, letting sarcasm seep into his tone. "I s'pose I'll see you when it's all over."

Then he slammed the screen shut, turning it dark. Martin's hasty shout was cut off and Douglas hated that it was – now all he could hear was his own erratic breathing and the thunk as he dropped his head on his desk, sending pens flying.

Sender: Arthur Shappey  
Recipient: Theresa Bonaventura

 _Hi, Theresa,  
I'm sorry to hear your signals not brilliant at the moment. And I'm really excited to hear you're heading back towards England – so that's East? Or West? One of the directions at least. I can't wait to see all the pictures.  
Actually, I wanted to ask you a question. I might as well ask instead of waiting for you to email me back saying I can, and then I'd have to send another email, and it'd get really silly. I was wondering whether you've spoken to Martin?  
I've spoken to Martin, obviously, cos we work together. But I don't think he's been talking to Douglas. So I was wondering whether it's just Douglas, or if Martin's not speaking to anyone at all except the people he has to see. He seems quite sad but he won't tell me what's wrong.  
Lots of love, Arthur.x_

Sender: Theresa Bonaventura  
Recipient: Arthur Shappey

 _Arthur, darling – I've missed you.  
And I'm glad you wrote. I'll be sure to take some more pictures when I pass through, especially of the roads. I've seen lots of yellow cars that I need to add to my tally.  
As for Martin... I haven't spoken to him, no. I'll try though. You know what he's like. Have you tried getting in touch with Douglas? I know he's been struggling a little. He won't admit it, but it's hard being away from home.  
I'll see what I can find out.  
Hope you are well.  
Theresa.x_

Sender: Arthur Shappey.  
Recipient: Theresa Bonaventura

 _Hi, Theresa.  
I talked to Douglas and he says Martin broke up with him. I'm not sure what I'm supposed to do about that, so... yeah, basically. Not that brilliant.  
But, on the bright side, Douglas is talking to me a lot now. He's called every day this week, which is great. Although, maybe not that great, because I think he's only calling because he's really upset and he wants someone to talk to. He sounded quite drunk last time.  
Can you do anything to fix it?  
Lots of love, Arthur.x_

Sender: Theresa Bonaventura  
Recipient: Arthur Shappey

 _Arthur, dear, I can't sort it for them. Neither of us can. I'm not sure what there even is to sort. You know I would if I could.  
I talked to Martin. I told him I knew they broke up and he crumbled – he's not as good at keeping secrets as he thinks. Turns out he asked to take a break, and then somehow they ended up breaking up for good. But he's not sure. He hasn't called Douglas to check, but I passed on what you said Douglas said to you... we shouldn't make a habit of that.  
I mean it, Arthur. Don't let them use you as a go between.  
He's glad to hear you're worried though. Grateful is probably a better word. I think he's going to try and be nicer at work – if he's acting strange – strang_ _ **er**_ **,** _that's why. Just give him a hug from me.  
Douglas is your best friend though. I think you need to talk to him properly – or let him talk to you about what really matters.  
I'll be home in a few months. Can't wait to see you. All of you.  
Theresa.x_

Sender: Arthur Shappey  
Recipient: Theresa Bonaventura

 _Hi, Theresa  
I know you said not to be a go between, but it's really hard. Are they still both talking to you? Douglas is telling me things, and Martin's getting sad at work. This morning I had to call a code red on him because he was being rude to Mr Birling – he's a posh man who likes to get drunk. I think Martin was upset because Douglas has been drunk the last few times he's called – or maybe I'm wrong.  
Basically, are they calling you as well or is it just me?  
Lots of love, Arthur._

Sender: Theresa Bonaventura  
Recipient: Arthur Shappey,

 _Oh, Arthur, it's not just you – but you see them more.  
I'm sorry you have to deal with this on your own. If anything awful happens, call me and I'll have a word with them both.  
Theresa. X_

Sender: Arthur Shappey  
Recipient: Theresa Bonaventura

 _Hi, Theresa  
It's not that bad. I'm actually glad they're talking to me. At least then they're talking, and that's good, even if I think they'd do better if they talked to each other instead of telling me to pass on messages. I'm not sure I want to repeat some of the things Douglas said – some are rude, others are just... they're really, really sad. I think he misses home.  
Did your flight get in on time? France is nice this time of year. I know because I was there yesterday, and it was brilliant. The sun shone all day. Martin said something about Douglas speaking French and then disappeared inside GERTI until we left.  
Lots of love, Arthur._

Sender: Theresa Bonaventura  
Recipient: Arthur Shappey

 _Arthur, go to Martin's house and stop him before he leaves. Tell him he can't go to Oxford and wait for Douglas – I tried last night but he won't listen. Run him over with your car if you have to. He's in a stupid mood. Douglas won't appreciate it.  
Theresa.x_

Sender: Arthur Shappey  
Recipient: Theresa Bonaventura

 _Hi, Theresa,  
Um, this might sound weird but, Douglas asked me to tell Martin something and I'm not sure whether I should – or it might have been _don't _tell Martin, and I'm still not sure whether I should. Mum says I should keep out of it. I don't think I should.  
Martin still has loads of Douglas' things apparently and he needs something for his course – or because he's missing home. I'm not sure what he meant. He said a lot of things. It just seems mean to take anything away from Martin at the moment. What should I do?  
Arthur._

Sender: Theresa Bonaventura  
Recipient: Arthur Shappey

 _Arthur, is there anything you and your mother would like from the airport? Apart from Toblerone? See, I remembered!  
Have things calmed down? I haven't heard anything for a few weeks.  
I should see you soon, hopefully.  
Theresa.x_

Sender: Arthur Shappey  
Recipient: Theresa Bonaventura

 _Hi, Theresa,  
I wouldn't say things have calmed down exactly. They've just got quieter and more glary. Douglas isn't enjoying his exams so I think he's forgotten that he's upset about Martin – or maybe he's more upset. Last time he called he asked how Martin was feeling, so that's good, I think? I told Martin Douglas asked and he got sad, so maybe it wasn't good.  
Douglas is coming back to stay with me over the summer. Martin knows. He hasn't said much about it really. He's been really quiet at work and he's been spending more time with his dad. I thought he was calling you though. If I'd known he wasn't, I'd have said something.  
These past few months have been a bit horrible, haven't they?  
I mean, they've been brilliant, because I'm getting really good at this and you're coming home, but... still not great.  
It'll be fine though.  
Lots of love, Arthur.x_

Sender: Theresa Bonaventura  
Recipient: Arthur Shappey

 _Arthur, I'm so sorry.  
About all of it. But also, I've just realised. How're things with Tiffy? I forgot to ask.  
Theresa.x_

Sender: Arthur Shappey  
Recipient: Theresa Bonaventura

 _Things are great with Tiffy. It's Martin and Douglas I'm worried about._

He couldn't believe that a year had passed. Nevertheless, as Martin stacked up each rejection letter, the truth was undeniable – either that or he had slipped back in time. No... this time he was resigned, but there were no tears.

A part of him had known anyway.

A bitter truth wormed its way through Martin's core as he vacated the house. He could have gone to his parents, or visited Arthur – he could have called Theresa or, god forbid, Douglas... Douglas would be sympathetic, he was sure. But he wouldn't want to hear it. They hadn't spoken in so long – months, only, but knowing that he couldn't pick up the phone and tell Douglas that he loved him, have Douglas tease him and call him Captain even though he would _never_ be even the lowest rank of pilot... Martin couldn't stand talking to anyone.

So Martin pulled on a light jumper, fetched two bottles of beer from the fridge... went back for a coat so that he could put one bottle in a deep pocket... and then wandered out into the streets of Fitton. He didn't drink and walk. He had some pride left and plenty of shame.

What the hell was he supposed to do?

Martin didn't want to spend the rest of his life as a steward. He didn't want to work with his dad's van for the next fifty years. As a way to get easy money, sure – as a gateway to flight-school, definitely. But not as a last resort. Martin's head span at the very idea – nausea gripped him as the determination, hot and fiery, faded from his bones and left them hollow.

Did the world just not want him to fly?

He was going to do it – Martin was damn well going to do it, but now... now he had no idea how. Now, all Martin wanted to do was fade out of existence until his head had cleared and he felt less sick, and people would stop asking him whether he was alright. Flight-school didn't want him – that path was closed. He'd find another way – maybe that way wouldn't work either.

As he often did, Martin found himself wondering what Douglas would do.

In the end, Martin dropped down on the bench outside the local park with a bottle in hand. He was out of sight, in the shadow of a few trees. While he drank, he sniffled and stared at the ground – occasionally glancing up at the sky but seeing nothing- no planes, no clouds, nothing at all to add to his misery. And yet, it remained just as heavy as it had before. Even the slurring nature of tipsiness did nothing to ease the churning in his chest.

In fact, it got worse.

By the time he reached his second bottle, Martin was dragging his hands through his hair and dropped his brow down onto his knees, gritting his teeth against the urge to yell.

It wasn't _fair_ – it wasn't fair that he could do everything right and still get kicked back.

"Martin?"

At the sound of his name, Martin's head snapped up.

He was met with the sight of Theresa, skin a shade darker than usual, hair cut short around her ears, blinking down at him with sympathetic disapproval. Relief washed through him so quickly that he could only let out a wet half-sob and a wobbly smile as he pushed himself to his feet, leaving the bottle behind.

"Wh-when did _you_ get here?"

Theresa smiled wanly and opened her arms to receive him. She hugged him warmly, patting the back of his neck before stepping back and holding him at arm's length. It was easy to see she wasn't impressed, but she did seem pleased to see him.

"A little while ago," she said. "I went to your house, but you weren't there. Obviously..."

"Sorry – I-I'm sorry... I knew you were coming back today. Y-you told me," Martin stammered. He pushed the back of his sleeve under his nose and did his best to blink away the dampness at his eyes. Try as he might, he couldn't dismiss them completely. "I-I've just had a lot on my mind. B-but enough about _me_ – how was your flight? Did you get unpacked okay? H-how's your mum – and Maxi?"

"Oh, I'm sure we can get to that," Theresa sighed. Slowly, she came to his side and hooked an arm through his. Her presence was steadying, and Martin allowed himself to be led. "I think you and I need to have a little talk."

Martin's heart sank.

"Y-you're mad at me, aren't you?"

"Not mad, no. Just worried. And I like my friends sober, you big lightweight," Theresa said, and she nudged him in the ribs. Despite the firmness of her lead, she smiled and gave his arm a gentle squeeze. "Someone else is back in a few days," she said, "And from what Arthur's told me, he's in as bad a state as you. You're both idiots."

Back in Fitton for the first time since Christmas, and Douglas was practically motionless. Even from inside the big glass bus station, the town looked different in summer. He had forgotten how much he liked the quietness of it all – there wasn't nearly as much bustle as there was in Oxford. Douglas sat atop his suitcase, his bag by his feet, staring out at the fractured slithers of light that poured in from overhead.

He had promised Arthur that he would come to stay, but he wasn't sure that he could now.

Things weren't the same as when he had left. He was one year closer to his new career, Arthur was a working man, and Martin... he wasn't sure that Martin would even want to see him. Douglas didn't know what he would say if they crossed paths, but he really _desperately_ wanted to see him – just to look at Martin and know if he was coping or falling apart.

Douglas wasn't falling apart; not outwardly. He had plenty of practice in surviving misery – all he had to do was get on with things and people would assume that he was fine.

In the end, Douglas didn't go to his parents, or choose to sleep rough. He went to Arthur's because that was the comfortable option, and he would never choose anything less. He accepted Arthur's hugs and concern, and Carolyn's sideways glances that could have meant anything, and then excused himself, lying and saying that he needed some fresh air after the long bus ride. Anything for some peace and quiet.

Douglas' feet carried him to the airfield. He didn't go inside, but he ambled along the fence, looking in at the expanses of green and the glittering aircraft that trundled along the tarmac. Here and there, people in yellow jackets cut clear paths across the space.

Douglas sniffled slightly, and then hated himself for it.

The airfield had come to feel more like home than anywhere else. It was ridiculous but he didn't want to leave yet. So he stayed, wandering around the perimeter... until he walked slap-bang into Martin.

Martin let out a high-pitched exclamation as Douglas' hand flew to his own chest. It seemed he hadn't been the only one not looking where he was going. His surprise lasted only a moment – the next his eyes travelled ravenously over Martin's face and down, taking in the pale face but the otherwise steady stance.

"Y-you're back then?" Martin asked.

Douglas' voice caught in his throat.

"I'm back," he said. "You're... still here?"

"Nowhere else to go," Martin scoffed. At that, his cheeks flushed and he shot the airfield a withering glare – closer to a glower – and kicked at the ground, scuffing his shoe in the mud. "I-I didn't get in – of course I didn't. No flight-school's going to take me."

"Martin, I'm so sorry-"

Martin scoffed again, as he buried his hands in his pockets and turned his eyes to the ground.

"Yeah."

"I _mean_ it, Martin."

"I-I believe you," Martin said curtly, nodding as if to himself. His eyes flashed as they shot up to Douglas' face, and Douglas felt shame swell in his chest under the other boy's gaze. Martin had been the one who had tried to be reasonable. Now his expression was indecipherable. "I-I believe you, I do... I just... don't, Douglas."

For once, Douglas did as he was told. He wanted to move closer, but was afraid of what would happen if he did. Instead, he nodded and tore his eyes from Martin's, unable to look any longer. It suddenly felt colder outside than it had before. Unlike Martin, he wasn't wearing a coat. It had been warmer in the city.

He was surprised when Martin spoke again.

"H-how did your exams go?"

Douglas shrugged and took the pause as an excuse to step closer – sway really. Martin didn't resist. He turned so that his back was to the airfield and leaned back against the fence, allowing the slack to support his weight. Douglas did the same, leaving space so that their arms didn't brush.

"Well, they're over now," he said. "Nothing I can do until next term."

"A-actually, there's probably a lot you can do."

" _Yes_ , technically, but I'm not going to do it," Douglas retorted. "You know me, Martin."

"I do actually!" Martin shot back, a mangled laugh making him shrill. Even so, he turned his head and looked Douglas in the eye, the corners of his lips twitched as he averted his gaze again. He took a deep breath – allowing Douglas to do the same – and sighed. "Yeah, I do... so you're alright then?"

Raising an eyebrow, Douglas ignored the twisting and curling in his guts. He wrung his hands in his inner pocket, careful not to let Martin see.

"In what sense?"

Martin shrugged.

"Any sense."

"Are _you_ alright?" Douglas asked instead of answering.

Martin shrugged again.

"I-I'll get there, probably," he said. "I need a new plan though."

"You'll get that too," Douglas assured him softly. "You're not one to give up."

Martin's brow furrowed as he stared, and Douglas didn't care to decipher what he was thinking. It was nice to be looked at. They hadn't had a conversation like this in... longer than Douglas cared to remember.

He wanted to try and kiss Martin, in some kind of grand romantic gesture.

He wanted his friend back more. That came as a surprise.

Douglas wasn't sure why they didn't part then. He was glad they didn't. Had they walked away, he wouldn't have ended up on the airfield as the sun dipped towards the horizon, Martin at his side, whispering in low tones as they scrambled up the side of the porta-cabin and onto the roof. From there they could see the runway – perfect for viewing the late arrivals, big and small... mostly small.

"I-I was thinking about this the other day," Martin explained, murmuring and leaning close so that Douglas could hear him without alerting the grounds crew to their presence. His breath puffed past Douglas' cheek. "N-not you and me up here, b-but just... up here. I-it's the only place apart from the ATC tower that we can see everything from – see – _see!"_

As Martin pointed out at the horizon, the lights of an incoming jet appeared and grew larger.

"I can see it," Douglas replied. He settled down, taking care not to rest his weight on Martin, even though Martin was leaning close to get a better view of the plane. "That's a good eye you've got there."

"Th-that's not exactly news," Martin said. "I know I've got a good eye."

Douglas chuckled and Martin prodded him with his elbow.

" _Hey!"_

"Hey yourself – I-I've been plane spotting since I was four," Martin said. "I-I'd like to see you pick that out from a crowd."

"I know what it is," Douglas retorted. "That's the one from your shelf."

This time, Martin laughed, doing nothing to cover it up. It was a low sound, different from his usual shrill tone, and it made his whole form light up – Douglas could feel the heat. They didn't get any closer, but they talked and talked, and Martin nearly slipped when he got up to get a clearer look at a plane in the dark.

"I've really missed you," Douglas said softly, when they were seated side by side again.

"I-I've missed you too," Martin replied, just as quietly. There was something sad in his voice, and he didn't meet Douglas' gaze.

They didn't talk about getting back together – or about working out whether they'd really broken up or just imagined it. Douglas wished that Martin would start the conversation, but he never did, and Douglas didn't have the guts. So... he cherished the lack of a fight and stayed with Martin until the floodlights were the only illumination they could see, and walked with him as far as Arthur's house.

When they said goodbye, Douglas' hand brushed Martin's, but no kisses were shared.


	22. Chapter 22

Chapter Twenty-Two

The engines were silent and the passengers were eager to leave. While Carolyn issued the final speeches, thanking them for their time and money, Martin and Arthur hovered near the door. As soon as the instruction was issued, they wrenched the door open and let the sunny Fitton noon creep inside. Arthur rushed down the steps, so that he could be the last face the clients saw, but Martin stayed just inside the cabin, in front of the galley door.

When the clients passed, Martin stuck out his hand for a firm handshake. If nothing else, he could be professional – that was more important than feeling sorry for himself. In fact, it helped to bolster his pride.

"Thank you, sir, for flying MJN," he said, shaking the hand of the first in line. "We hope your flight was satisfactory."

It went on like that for about ten minutes.

"Thank you, ma'am, for flying MJN. We hope you come back to us in the future."

"Thank you for flying MJN."

"Thank you for flying MJN. May I take your bags?"

Martin waited until the last passenger was on the way out before offering to take his bags, so that he could say goodbye to each person in turn. He accepted the carry-ons and followed the procession down to the ground, dodging out of Arthur's way before he could say goodbye to _him_ as well. Martin carried the bags all the way to the taxi, and was pleased when the man's wife pulled out her purse and fished for some notes.

"What's the usual rate of your tips, young man?" she asked, peering at him through over-large specs.

"I-It's conditional on the quality of my service," Martin replied, fighting a smug smile. His service had been immaculate. He hadn't tripped once, he had served all the drinks without spilling, and when he wasn't in the flight-deck he was the perfect conversationalist.

The woman handed him a crisp fifty pounds and Martin waited until the taxi pulled away before returning to the porta-cabin. He greeted Carolyn with a grin and took care to hide his tip in the deepest pocket of his waistcoat.

"You're in a good mood, Martin," Carolyn remarked as they prepared to go home.

She would be staying a little longer, to oversee Herc and Nigel's paperwork and to ensure that GERTI was clean. Arthur was meant to tidy up as well, but Martin suspected that she was considering sending Arthur on a cleaning course. It would make things run more smoothly if nothing else.

"Y-yeah, I am," Martin replied brightly as he slipped into his coat. "I-it's before lunch, I've got another job lined up with my dad. It's starting to look like a good day all round."

"Good for you, Martin," Arthur congratulated him.

As soon as everything was sorted, Martin hurried home to change into something less polyester, and then waited for his dad to return from his morning appointment in the van. It was another far-off job, in the next town, but Raymond was willing to drive the distance and take his time as he charged a reasonable rate, and he was fairly popular among the local population.

"I'm thinking about sending you off on jobs on your own," Raymond remarked when they were halfway along the scenic route, slowing for the bends.

Martin's attention was piqued, and he took his chin from where he had propped it on his hand. The world outside was trundling by, not that interesting at all, but he could see the glittering specks of aircraft heading back to Fitton. For a moment he didn't know what to say – he was pleased, obviously, that his father trusted him, but the thought of taking on anything permanent still make his stomach sink.

"Wh-why would you do that?"

"Just thought it would be a nice idea."

"Have you got something else you need doing?" Martin asked. He fidgeted in his seat and pushed a hand through his hair, biting his lip. "I-I mean, not that I'm not grateful – I _am_ really grateful, for everything-"

"Martin, son, don't over-think it," Raymond interrupted, silencing him with a wave of his hand. His eyes were on the road, but he smiled nonetheless. "Well, think it over. That's the only thinking you're allowed to do."

Despite the defiant pounding in his skull, Martin _did_ think it over. He didn't stop thinking about it even when they were in their client's house, tinkering with the boiler and various fuses. Martin concentrated as best he could while his dad stood back, making suggestions and asking questions, as if he were teaching – preparing to hand down the mantle. He knew what he was meant to be doing – in fact, it was easy.

"I-I think it's the thermostat," Martin murmured, glancing over his shoulder for his dad's appraisal.

"I think you're right, son," Raymond agreed, leaning back against the wall of the airing cupboard that they were working in. "What're you going to do about it?"

Sighing, fighting the beginnings of a smug smile, Martin set about fixing the damage. In the end, he had to replace the thermostat, and his dad made him do it himself, without help. He did so with a satisfied resignation.

It wasn't like he could stop working from the van. No matter what path he took now, he would need money. The decision he had to make was... was he saving money to fund his career in aviation, or was he committing to a job with his father, that he was actually rather good at? The clink of his screwdriver didn't help him decide. Nor did the bubbling sound inside the old-fashioned boiler.

He didn't get a break until his dad went downstairs to turn on the mains electricity. After a moment alone, in which he pulled his knee up to rest his head on, Martin's phone bleeped feebly in his pocket. When he checked it, he couldn't help a flicker of pleasant surprise.

 _Nice weather we're having. D._

Martin glanced from the cupboard, towards the window. The sun was still shining. Snorting, Martin typed out a reply.

 _Is it raining in Oxford by any chance?_

 _Torrential. D,_ came the response.

Martin had no idea what Douglas was doing – whether he was in a lecture or hanging around inside his flat, wishing he could go out – but he didn't want to ask. It was better to imagine anything, and smile as affection slithered, warm and sweet, underneath his skin. Instead of leaving it there, Martin fired off another text.

 _Bright sunny skies here. Perfect flying conditions._

He could almost imagine Douglas' scrunched up nose when his phone bleeped again.

 _Damn you and your pilot's luck. D._

Just as Martin was about to say that he wasn't a pilot yet, or at all, his dad returned. Hastily stashing his phone in his pocket, he snatched up his screwdriver and waggled the thermostat to make sure that it was properly wedged in place.

"How's that sounding now the power's on?" Raymond asked, tipping his chin towards the boiler. There was no doubt that he could hear the groaning and bubbling from the boiler. He was doing it for Martin's sake, again.

"I-it should be fine now," Martin assured him.

They packed away, and Martin tried to resist when his dad gave him all of their fee, except for ten pounds that he called 'travel costs'. All the way home, he thought about the proud, cheerful look on his dad's face each time they went on a job together. Raymond never spent time with Simon or Caitlin like this – mostly because Simon was a mummy's boy and Caitlin wouldn't be caught dead fixing someone's boiler. Even though it was miles from where he wanted to be, Martin couldn't help feeling proud.

But then... he remembered Douglas' text. The rush of heat it brought was so tangled in emotions that he wasn't sure what he was more pleased about – Douglas talking to him or the reminder that Douglas believed in his efforts.

As much as he loved his dad... he couldn't give up on becoming a pilot. He'd just have to use a less conventional route.

The class, although small, had divided into two sections. The first was eagerly muttering amongst themselves, shuffling their feet and taking up far too much of the examination room. The other, of which Douglas was a member, had fallen eerily silent. It was a relief that he was known for sitting, or in this case standing, at the back, as it meant that nobody except GW was at risk of seeing the pallor or stiffness of his expression – he could _feel_ the colour leeching from his skin as his heart quickened to hummingbird-esque beat.

They had been doing practical tutorials last year. Douglas had _known_ that they would be stepping up their game this year. Somehow, he had thought that more than a month or two would pass before he was back in another room, wishing he could cover his mouth and nose so that he didn't have to inhale the clinical stench or the... _other_ stench, forcing himself not to close his eyes – if he closed his eyes, it always became easier to hear the squelching.

"This'll be a good one," GW whispered, eyes front and centre. The teacher wasn't speaking that moment, but GW's attention was caught. "Gruesome, but good. I heard someone say-"

"If you don't mind," Douglas sighed, curbing the edge in his tone. "My head's still aching."

"Right, yeah – sorry, Dougie."

Douglas was jostled as the group shifted and moved to make more space. He was glad that the patient was sedated, so that he didn't have to see all their gawping faces – Douglas for one would never trust a doctor again if he knew that someone had been peeking inside him instead of stitching him up in a timely fashion.

He didn't know how his parents did it, Douglas thought as he wrung his hands together. What he did know was that neither of them had ever come home looking like they wanted to throw up.

Did they fake it? Did they sit in their cars sucking mints to remove the smell from their senses? Why on earth had they spent years telling him that this was fulfilling?

As much as he wanted to be a doctor... and Douglas was really starting to test his own patience where that was concerned... this... this was horrible. The teacher started talking again – walking around the patient in his clean paper smock, and Douglas didn't understand a word of it. It was like his ears were full of cotton wool. His eyes refused to focus on the patient, or the doctor, and his own sterile attire itched too much against his skin.

"Can anyone tell me..."

Douglas dutifully avoided catching the doctor's eye when he asked his question and looked to the class. He probably _could_ tell him whatever it was he wanted to know, but he was too busy focusing on the tiled floor. This kind of thing had always made his squirm – in the same way his father squirmed when he saw how much mud rugby brought into their house, mostly on the bottom of Douglas' boots – but he had never been so dizzy before.

He was jolted out of his trance by GW, clapping him on the back.

"On the move, Dougie."

And they were on the move. One by one, the students lined up. To Douglas' horror, they were heading in the direction of the patient. The room was too small for him to sneak out – for him to so much as duck down and slip from the crowd. The lights were too bright and the clean scent was burning his skin. From over the shoulders of eight or so fellow students, Douglas watched the doctor approach the patient, explaining what was going on.

"So, what I'd like you to do is come and have a look – have a touch if you like," he said. "This is just to acclimatise you – although I _will_ be expecting some of your own research in the notes to hand in next week."

Slowly, dreading every step, telling himself over and over that he was supposed to be excited, Douglas followed the others as close as they dared to go. From so near, he could see exactly what the doctor was doing.

Douglas bit his tongue and closed his eyes when the doctor laid his fingers on the patient's skull. When he opened them again, the man's brain was in clear view.

For the next few minutes, Douglas was sure he zoned out completely. The next thing he knew, he was standing in front of the patient, the doctor's hand on his arm. Someone was talking to him, but he couldn't take his eyes from the brain. Nausea ripped through him, and leaned – or maybe fell into the doctor's side. Buzzing filled his ears and he reached out – following someone's instructions but he couldn't have said whose...

The next thing Douglas knew, he ached all over – bruised like he felt after a kick about with the lads. Blinking only made his eyes sting as harsh light poured into them, and his ears still rang as he felt sicker than he had ever felt before. He realised that he was lying on something cold – more than likely the floor. As soon as he was aware of that, he was aware of the dark shapes looming over him.

"You alright, Dougie? You passed out." That was GW's voice, followed soon by his face. There were other voices, the doctor's included, but Douglas didn't listen to any of them. "We moved you out into the hall, mate. I think I might have clocked your ankle against the doorframe though... sorry 'bout that."

Douglas groaned and nodded – he sat upright abruptly and had to slam his hand against his brow to stop the dizziness. As his embarrassment grew, Douglas scrambled upright and to his feet – he shot the examination room a quick glance, and then hastily looked away. He didn't say a word as he staggered away, further down the hall, and wasn't sure whether he was pleased or not that GW followed him.

"I'm fine – fine, I swear –I'm alright," Douglas murmured, waving him away. He came to lean against the wall, arm up so that he could bury his face in it.

Then and there, Douglas wanted nothing more than to get outside and as far away as possible.

"I need some air," he said. He lifted his head and pushed himself upright. "GW, can you tell... tell them I've gone outside. Don't say anything else."

"Sure thing, mate."

Douglas received one last pat on the back before he was left alone. When he was capable of standing without swaying, he marched outside, wishing he had his usual comfy clothes instead of these stiff, starched hospital scrubs. Not caring where he went, Douglas wandered in a straight line until he found a secluded brick wall, and sat upon it.

Dropping his head into his hands, he took deep breaths until he was calm. Then he reached for his phone and didn't give dialling much thought.

" _Hello?"_

"Martin, hi."

Douglas could almost hear Martin raising an eyebrow. He didn't ask what he was doing – it didn't matter really. Wherever he was, he had picked up, which was something. Taking a deep breath, Douglas tried his best not to seem upset – not to let his inhalations turn ragged.

" _Wh-what's up?"_ Martin asked.

"Nothing much," Douglas replied. Then he slumped forwards over his knees and said as dryly as he could manage. "They wanted me to touch a brain."

" _O-oh_ , _right... i-is that a bad thing?"_ Martin asked. His voice crackled over the line, and Douglas closed his eyes so that it was the only thing he was aware of. _"I-I mean, you want to become a doctor."_

"A _live_ brain."

" _Oh – eurgh! That's horrible!"_

Martin's disgust was evident, but Douglas could hear something else – the faint murmur of a laugh. He must have been doing a better job than he thought at playing nonchalant. Squeezing his phone tightly, Douglas sighed.

"I knew you'd laugh..."

" _Sh-should I not be laughing?"_ Martin's concern was evident now, although so was his confusion. " _It's gross, but..."_

"No, it's fine," Douglas said wanly. "I'm glad you laughed."

 _"_ _Good then... th-that's good_ ," Martin said. There was a pause, and a moment of crackling, before Martin pushed onwards. " _Y-you'll never guess what's going on here. We only got back a few hours ago, a-and..."_

Douglas listened to Martin waffle on about the flight. It occurred to him that he should return to class, but he didn't. He just sat outside, ignoring the breeze and wondering how he was going to face his peers now. The one thing he was certain of was that under no circumstances would he be touching anyone's brain – or any other part for that matter.

In retrospect, asking Arthur to help out with the maths – any maths – wasn't Martin's brightest idea. True, he had given Arthur his calculator, but that didn't do any good when he had also laid out his bank account details, his accounts, all of the up to date books he owned, and his laptop – webpage not yet selected. There was just too much information for Arthur to take in whilst also listening to Martin's instructions.

"So let me get this straight..." Arthur said, turning a pen between his fingers and tapping it against his lips. He hadn't used it yet, and probably wouldn't at all, but as he lay flat on his stomach, flicking through one of the heavier books without reading it, he looked studious enough to fool anyone walking past Martin's front yard. "You're going to become a pilot _without_ going to flight-school? How? I thought you needed to do exams, and get taught, and do a load of other stuff."

"I-I do, but I can do the exams myself if I pay for them," Martin explained. All he had to do was balance the numbers in his bank account, work out how much he would make from working on GERTI and from the van, and then work out how much he needed to live on for the next few years. "Oh, a-and I need to pay for the flight hours, a-and the instructor."

"Brilliant!"

"W-well, yeah, kind of."

"You can hire your own teacher? That's great. I wish I could do that."

"Y-you can't just hire one for the sake of it. You need to decide what you're doing," Martin said distractedly as he tapped on his laptop's keyboard, opening up the list of sites that he wanted to visit and cross-reference. "Anyway, you don't need one – y-you're sticking with the stewarding and you're already good at that."

"Aw, thanks, Martin."

They continued in silence for a while. Martin suspected that Arthur wasn't helping at all really. His phone was out and he was texting, talking to Tiffy no doubt – not that he minded. He just wanted the company. After a strange, oddly brief call from Douglas the other day, he hadn't heard from anyone much. With Theresa in Cambridge, there weren't a lot of people left to talk to.

"So how much is this going to cost, if you do it all yourself?" Arthur asked.

"That's what I'm trying to work out," Martin muttered. He checked his laptop again and then looked down at his notes, doing the maths in his head. "Just give me a second... I-I just need to check again..." Martin scrolled down to a small flight-school's site and flicked through to see their ballpark figures. His heart sank – only to drop completely when the sum added up in his head. "O-oh... oh no..."

That caught Arthur's attention.

"What?"

Martin swallowed hard, steeling his nerve before he answered. He had known it wouldn't be easy. He had known it wouldn't be cheap. He hadn't realised quite how impossible it would be without the student loan.

"I-it's... i-it's going to cost..." Martin couldn't get it out at first. Then he sat up tall and forced himself through it. "For the PPL, and the CPL, and the IR... with all the training and the exams and everything... i-it could cost anywhere between eight-thousand and eleven-thousand pounds, a-and that's the bare _minimum_."

"Oh no..."

"I-I'll do it though," Martin said. Even as he said it, something cold trickled through him, but that only made him more determined. "I-I'll do it, even if I have to work from the van for the next thirty years, a-and be steward for just as long, a-and take out loans."

"You can do it, Martin."

Martin met Arthur's gaze and searched for any word of a lie. There was none. Of course Arthur believed in him. It was enough for now, Martin supposed. It wasn't as though he would stop if it wasn't there.

Later that night, Martin paced around his room wondering whether he was making the wrong decision. He stopped wondering when he saw the Captain's hat Douglas had bought him, so long ago now, balanced at the head of his bed. He itched to put it on – when he reached out and took it, it felt right to place it on his head.

Just as he was about to turn and look at himself in the mirror, his door opened.

"Would you stop stomping around," Caitlin huffed, sneering slightly through her exhaustion as she took him in, standing in the doorway. "Some of us have studying to do."

Martin stuck out his tongue and she left. He did, however, stop pacing and took himself to bed, eager to forget the stresses that lay ahead. It seemed he'd be facing them alone – everyone else was already on their own path. He'd just have to forge his own.

Douglas knew that Theresa wasn't expecting him, but he was smart and adept enough to find his way around Cambridge and work out where she lived. He waited on the doorstep, not caring that people stared when they walked past. He fiddled with his phone, staring at the screen more so that he didn't have to look up at the clear sky and the busy street than because he had any use for it. He had nowhere else to be now.

When Theresa arrived, she seemed surprised at first – then, with a confidence born of running after imbeciles her whole life, she rolled her eyes and sighed. Dropping her bag by the door, she lowered herself down on the doorstep beside him. She squeezed Douglas' wrist in a soothing gesture.

"Do I want to know what's wrong?"

"I've done something very stupid," Douglas said, voice as brittle as glass. He tucked his phone in his pocket and folded his hands together so that he couldn't wring them, or squirm any more than he already was.

"I'm sure it's not that bad," Theresa said, with a half-hearted shrug. "Whatever it is-"

"I dropped out."

" _I'm sorry?"_

Douglas' eyes widened and he turned quickly, almost falling off the doorstep as he raised his hands to tell her to be quiet. It was defensive – nervous, and he wanted to slap himself for putting himself in such a situation. He hadn't been thinking – hadn't thought until he was on the train, seeking the one person he could talk to.

"Don't tell Martin – promise me, Theresa, Martin can't know. And don't tell Arthur either – he'll only tell Martin and his mother. He can't keep a secret," Douglas insisted. "Please, promise me, you won't say a word."

"Promise what?" Theresa exclaimed. "I'm not even sure what you've done! You dropped out?"

"Out of medical school," Douglas hissed. He glanced out towards the street, hastily lowering his voice. "Out of university completely – I'm not a student anymore!"

"Why on earth would you do _that_?"

"Because it got too hard-"

"You can't just give up because something's _hard_ ," Theresa sighed.

"It's not what I want – I _hate_ it, Theresa – I hate it all so much. I hate the body parts, and all the facts, and all the essays – and I hate the medical equations and all the concoctions and the _damn brains_ – I never want to see a drop of blood again!" Douglas caught his breath, chest heaving, and gripped his knees. Faced with Theresa's shocked expression – her slow blink – he couldn't keep his mouth shut. "I don't want to be a doctor... I really, _really_ don't. I don't think I ever did. It's _horrible_ – it's disgusting!"

"Alright, alright..." Theresa placed a hand on Douglas' shoulder and squeezed. He fell silent, and she hurried on before he could say another word. He was relieved for every second that her voice filled his head instead of his own fear. "Okay... so you don't want to be a doctor... you don't think you've been a bit hasty?"

"No, I don't," Douglas said firmly. "I went to the dean's office yesterday, and I dropped out."

"See, that sounds hasty to me-"

"I fainted," Douglas huffed. "In class."

"Oh... well, that's only-"

"One last thing in a line of signs that I shouldn't be studying medicine," Douglas concluded. He swallowed the lump in his throat and nodded to himself, gathering his nerve. There was no going back – even if he wanted to, there wasn't. He had done the irreversible. His life as he had planned it was over. Now there was only a wide, empty horizon. "I don't know _what_ I'm meant to be doing, but it's not that."

Theresa nodded. Then she sighed. She took her hand from his arm and folded it with her other in her lap.

"Have you told your parents?"

"No."

Rolling her eyes, shaking her head, Theresa looked up and caught Douglas' eye.

"You really like to make life hard for yourself, don't you?"


	23. Chapter 23

Chapter Twenty-Three

Fitton's town library wasn't exactly jam-packed with knowledge, but it was far more extensive than the school library had been. Reference books were relevant to more than just the subjects the teachers wanted to study, and the shelves were arranged in a circular formation, rather like a maze.

Martin wasn't sure what he was looking for. All he knew was that when bogged down by doubt, desperate for an answer, he was taken back to his school days when he would seek comfort and answers in amongst the books. Slowly but surely, he trudged through the aisles, running his fingers along the spines of books that caught his eye – tipping them out to inspect the covers and only occasionally opening them to glance at the text within.

It was a hopeless situation really.

Martin needed money. The only way he would get it was if he found more part-time jobs that he could escape easily to train and then take exams – if he was always working, he wouldn't have time to train – if he was training, he wouldn't have time to work in order to pay for the training. All he could think to do was search the library for a solution, without believing that he would find one.

Thinking that he might search through the directories, Martin headed back towards the front of the library, weaving between the shelves to make the journey last longer. The librarian shot him a suspicious glare, but he smiled and waved and made no effort to hurry up. GERTI was on standby, his dad wasn't working today – he had nowhere else to be, and that was the problem.

He almost changed course when he saw someone hovering in the Careers section – then he did a double-take and ground to a halt. There, glowering dolefully at the thick-set books, was Douglas. His hands were in his pockets, his hair looked soft and shiny even from a distance, and the sight of him made Martin's heart stick in his throat. For a moment, Martin couldn't move – then Douglas sighed, swayed on his heel, and turned in his direction.

The guilty surprise on Douglas' face shocked Martin out of his trance.

"Wh-what are _you_ doing here?"

Douglas blinked and shook his head. Then he hastily cleared his throat, covering his lips with a curled hand as he feigned nonchalance. Martin knew he was pretending. He was never so casual when he was being honest.

"It's public property, Martin," Douglas drawled. "I'm browsing, if that's alright with you."

"Give it a rest, Douglas," Martin sighed. Abandoning his own search, he strode into the Careers section, coming to a stop just out of reach. The shock of seeing Douglas was second only to the warm flicker of pleasure at... well, _seeing_ him. "Wh-what're you up to?"

"I'm offended that you think I'm up to anything."

"I-it's the middle of term and you're _here_ ," Martin said, and he felt a spark of smugness as Douglas' expression slackened and he lost the sway in his step. "Oxford get boring, did it?"

"It's Reading Week," Douglas replied curtly. The edge in his tone and the fact that he stared at the books instead of meeting Martin's gaze stopped Martin from interrupting to tease him further. "Like half-term. I thought I'd come back for a bit – soak up the Fitton air."

Martin wanted to push further, but he didn't. Whatever was wrong – and there _was_ something wrong – Douglas was keeping it to himself and it wasn't really any of his business anymore. Not as anything more than a friend. So Martin held his tongue, but he didn't keep away – he wandered with Douglas along the shelf, relieved that the other boy didn't tell him to go away. They enjoyed each other's company without admitting to it, until the silence became stifling.

"W-we're making a habit of this, aren't we?" Martin remarked, trying to be funny.

Douglas looked at him, brow furrowed.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"I-I just meant – this is kind of our thing, isn't it?" Martin explained quickly. His eyes flickered from Douglas' face, out into the library and the maze of aisles and shelves that hid the other locals from sight. "Hanging out in the library – i-if that's what you're doing. I-it's sort of where we started out, isn't it?"

Slowly, Douglas nodded. A small smile plucked at his lips and he ran a hand through his hair.

"If you say so," he said. Then he heaved another sigh and came to a stop, as if he wasn't sure where he wanted to go. They still hadn't left the Careers section. He managed a smile and Martin felt his own begin in return. "So... Martin... how've you been?"

"G-good," Martin answered. He saw that Douglas didn't believe him in the tilt of his eyebrow, and hurried to defend himself, even though he wasn't sure why the thought of Douglas knowing the truth worried him so. "I-I mean, it's not _bad_. I'm going for my licenses myself – no flight-school, just private instruction a-and exams."

Douglas whistled through his teeth.

" _Pricey_."

He rocked on his heels ever so slightly, lips pursing like he wanted to say more. His eyes were wide and emotional, big and brown and impossible for Martin to resist gazing into. He looked at him like he had before, when he was dying to offer comfort but didn't know how. It made Martin swallow the lump in his throat and hastily try to change the subject.

His mind leapt from one thing to the next... only to land exactly where he needed it to.

" _Hold on_... Reading Week?" Martin exclaimed, bristling with indignation. " _Douglas_ – I-I'm not _stupid_. Last year Reading Week was all the way in February. We haven't even had Christmas yet!" A flash of triumph shot through him when Douglas froze like a rabbit caught in headlights. "What are you _really_ doing here?"

"I-I..."

"A-and don't lie to me," Martin snapped, careful to keep his voice down even as Douglas stammered, eyes darting over his shoulder. He didn't know whether he was searching for an exit or the librarian, and he didn't care.

Douglas let out a reluctant exhalation, and his shoulders sagged. The conflict between honesty and deception played out across his face, but Martin waited, planting his feet in case Douglas tried to escape past him. He nearly put his hands on his waist before remembering how Caitlin did the same thing and quickly decided against the motion.

He watched as Douglas' eyes darted back and forth. Then he let out a frustrated groan and closed the space between them. Martin tried not to react when Douglas placed a hand on his arm, even though heat shimmered through his limb from the point of contact – and he let himself he turned and pushed towards the end of the row of shelves.

"Not in here," Douglas hissed. "Outside – come on."

" _Why_?" Martin shot back. "Wh-who do you think's listening?"

"Nobody, I just..." Douglas trailed off before continuing more sharply. "Not in here, Martin. I need some air."

Douglas drew out the time before he had to tell the truth as long as he could. Martin didn't get bored and walk away, even when Douglas went to order coffee, and then wandered around and around the park looking for somewhere to sit, eventually dropping down with the library only just in view over the line of trees at the park's edge. The other boy glared at him and Douglas felt every ounce of his disappointment and expectation weighing down on him. It was just like old times – back when Martin would desperately tap his foot and fold his arms and insist that he just get on with his homework.

"Come on then. W-what is it?" Martin demanded, when Douglas had wasted a good fifteen minutes blowing on his coffee and taking slow sips – dramatically wincing at how tepid it was in an attempt to distract him. "Wh-why are you _here_ , skipping class? A-and don't tell me it's something to do with – I-I don't know. Some scheme or whatever. B-because you worked hard to get into Oxford and you can't let it all slip for some trade."

"That's not it, Martin."

"Th-then what is it?"

"It's nothing, really."

"Y-you lied to me," Martin insisted, fixing Douglas with a stern glare that made his stomach turn. It also made him want to lie some more, just to get Martin off his back – or to make a snide comment about how Martin wasn't one to know about university life – but he held it back as Martin bowled onwards. "I-it's got to be important if you're not telling me."

"You're right," Douglas agreed, nodding solemnly.

"R-right."

"Very right," Douglas continued, staring down at his coffee instead of at Martin. "It's very important to me."

"So you'll tell me?"

"So _you'll_ understand that it's so important... that you can't have a go at me," Douglas said. "I have to admit, Martin... I'm a little bit ashamed."

"Oh, god, w-what have you done?"

Douglas sighed and placed his coffee aside. He turned to face Martin, wringing his hands together over his knees. He took a deep breath – and then another. He wasn't sure why it mattered so much – no, he _did_. Martin hadn't got into flight-school and that made it worse. Douglas, in some twisted part of himself, had thought of himself as better than that – as something that Martin could be proud of for being such a success – for overcoming his own inadequacies and then asking for help.

Martin's impatience spurred the words from his tongue.

"I dropped out of Oxford."

Martin gaped at him and Douglas' heart stilled – waiting to see how it was meant to beat. For a moment, Martin's mouth flapped as understanding took hold, and Douglas considered reaching out to steady him. Then his brow furrowed and he frowned.

"S-so you... you _dropped out_?"

"That's the long and short of it, yes."

"B-but how are you going to be a doctor if you don't-"

"I'm _not_ , Martin. That's the point," Douglas said, through gritted teeth.

He had lost count of how many times he had had this conversation with himself in his own head since he had told Theresa, and she had told him to go home and collect his thoughts. Every time he did, he became more certain. He wasn't mean to be a doctor. In fact, there was nothing he wanted _less_.

Still, Martin stared at him as if the world had flipped on its head.

"Y-you don't want to be a doctor?"

"No."

"W-what _do_ you want to do?"

"I don't know."

Martin stared, and he stared, until Douglas started to feel uncomfortable. Their knees weren't far apart, but Douglas had never felt so adrift from everyone else in the world. He could see Martin trying to figure it out – Martin who had had his whole future planned out and probably couldn't imagine what it was like not to know what you wanted to be – and he wanted to cover his face with his hands.

Then Martin didn't say a word.

Douglas had been expecting something. He was shocked when Martin moved instead of opening his mouth. His expression softened and his eyes darted down to Douglas' hands – which his own covered a moment later, warm and sweaty, tougher than before. Douglas assumed he had been putting himself through his paces with hands-on work with his dad. The solid weight of them – fingers curling around the back of his own palms – brought something wet and shuddering to the surface of Douglas' skin and a lump to his throat.

"Oh, _Douglas..."_

 _"_ Stop it," Douglas sniffed, but he prayed that Martin didn't take his hands away.

He was relieved when Martin shifted closer, squeezing softly. He didn't put an arm around him or pull him into a hug – didn't kiss him – and Douglas supposed that was the way things were now.

"W-what did your parents say?" Martin asked softly, so gently – more gently than Douglas had ever heard him speak.

It made him miss how close they used to get.

"They don't know," Douglas admitted, ducking his head so that he could rearrange his features into something calmer – something that didn't tremble when he opened his lips.

Martin nodded. Then he frowned.

"Th-then where are you staying?" he asked. A moment later, before Douglas could do more than glance in the other direction, he rolled his eyes and let out an exasperated sigh. "You're staying with _Arthur_ , aren't you? D-did you make him promise not to tell me?"

"I'm surprised he's kept it to himself for so long," Douglas snorted, glad of the distraction. "I've been there three days already."

They sat in silence for a while. For the first time in days, Douglas could breathe without a weight on his chest. He didn't know why he had been so worried about telling Martin. After a while, Martin even filled the silence by describing all the painstaking and expensive things he would have to pay for to become a pilot.

"S-so it's one thing after another really," he said. "I've got to get the PPL first, so that's a minimum of forty-five hours training _in a plane_ , a-and instrument and navigational training, _seven_ multi-choice exams, and a radio examination, then a skills test, a-and only _then_ can I apply to the CAA for the license. Then I've got to get the CPL, which is over a _hundred and fifty_ hours flying, _fourteen_ ATPL exams, a medical exams, cross country qualifying, a-and a multi-piston rating. And _then_ to get the Instrument Rating, I need to take _another_ fourteen exams – a-all theoretical-"

"You've got a lot on your plate then."

"Th-that's an understatement," Martin scoffed. "I-I have to pay for aircraft hire, a-and an instructor, landing fees for wherever I go – b-because one of the exams involves landing in two airfields that _aren't_ my local – a-and exams fees."

Douglas hummed sympathetically and gave Martin's hand a squeeze. He still hadn't pulled away.

"It's a shame you don't have a handy airfield just down the road from your house," he remarked, taking some small pleasure from catching Martin's eye and seeing him shake his head over the practicalities. "It's an even greater shame that you don't know a family with an aeroplane, and a very friendly pilot who would do anything if their CEO asked."

"GERTI's the wrong kind of plane," Martin replied dryly, with a droop in his voice that suggested he had thought of the same thing, only to discard it. "B-besides, Herc isn't a trained flying instructor. I-if he were to take me up – o-or to try and teach me – the CAA would have his license, and both of us might go to jail."

"So not worth it then?"

Martin snorted and shook his head. Laughter bubbled up and Douglas couldn't help but join in as warmth flooded his chest. It was a sour sort of pleasure, but it was nice all the same. A moment passed, in which Martin turned their hands over, running his thumbs over Douglas' knuckles. Then he cleared his throat, cheeks flushing deep red as if they hadn't done far more intimate things before.

"D-Douglas..."

"Hmmm?"

"I-I know we're not... I know this isn't a good time for you, but..." Martin stammered to a stop, and then looked up, caught his eye, and ploughed onwards. "Do you fancy going for dinner sometime – this week, I-I mean? A-and not just chips and a walk through the park. Actual dinner, a-at a restaurant."

Douglas had to stop himself from agreeing vehemently – from embarrassing himself completely. But... it didn't last long. Doubts thundered through his head but they were silence each and every one by a single fact – he wanted desperately to put things right with Martin. He loved him. He _wanted_ to go to dinner and to keep going to dinner with him.

If there was one thing Douglas couldn't resist, it was doing what he _wanted_.

"Of course I'll come to dinner," he said, and was pleased when Martin grinned bashfully. "Friday?"

"N-no, not Friday," Martin said. "Everyone goes on Friday. A-anywhere we go will be packed."

"Obviously. Thursday then?"

"Sure."

Martin couldn't decide whether he felt ridiculous or very proud of himself. It had been so long since he had spent a decent amount of time with Douglas that he was actually feeling nervous. He darted around his room, searching for his comb before running his hand through his hair and making the matter worse. Loathe as he was to dress up... Martin had dressed up. He loved putting on a smart suit – not that he was wearing a suit just for Douglas' sake, but still...

He needed to stop and catch his breath. His heart was racing as much as his head as he smoothed out the creases in his tidied dark jeans and his most recently ironed shirt. Should he wear a suit jacket? Douglas would make fun of him. Did he want Douglas to make fun of him? Martin couldn't decide as he stood in front of the bathroom mirror. Maybe just a jumper – the jumper he had worn when they last... yes, that was a good idea. He must look handsome in it or nothing would have happened.

"Big night, chum?" Simon asked, smirking as he passed the bathroom. It wasn't late in the evening, and he was home, paying extra close attention to Martin as if he could sense his nerves and zone in on them. "Exciting date lined up?"

"No, nothing like that," Martin muttered, doing his best to ignore him. "Just meeting a friend for a nice meal, a-and coming home at the end of the evening."

"If you say so."

Simon left him alone, and Martin hurried back to his room before someone else turned up.

Martin messed with his hair for a little while longer, and decided to wear the jumper – because it was soft and not too dark and didn't make it clear just how pale he was. Douglas seemed to like it anyway.

Douglas.

What was he even expecting? This was a date, surely? Douglas had smiled and agreed as if it were a date. Martin had _meant_ to ask him out – to ask him to get back together – to ask if he still loved him, but had stopped himself from pushing too hard. Douglas had just torn his own world to pieces, and while he seemed to be wandering around in a bit of a dream, eventually that dream was going to shatter and reality would set in. Would it be wrong to want him back now? Did Douglas have time for romance? Was their relationship as important as their careers – their not-yet-started, still in-the-works, careers?

Questions were the only things in Martins' head. Before, they had known where they were going – maybe to opposite ends of the country – and they could plan accordingly. Now they knew that long-distance didn't work for them – but _now_ – _now_ Douglas had agreed to go to dinner and it was all Martin could do not to leap for joy and throw himself down on his bed as he whirled across the room.

Then the doorbell rang, and Wendy called through the house.

"Martin! I think your young man's arrived."

And he _had_ arrived.

Martin met Douglas on the doorstep, hastily pulling the door shut behind him so that his family couldn't ogle them from the living room. He took in the smart coat and nice trousers that Douglas was wearing, the smooth flop of his hair where he had brushed it back from his brow, and the suave – albeit subtly anxious – smile on his face as he stood with his hands together. The nervous anticipation in his eyes brought something hot and giddy to Martin's chest and he grinned as he met Douglas in the steadily darkening evening.

"Douglas."

"Hello, _you_."

Resisting the urge to hug him, Martin fell into step beside Douglas and enjoyed the stroll into the evening air. Their elbows brushed, and Martin clumsily tried to take his hand – when he missed, Douglas took his instead and they talked about nothing at all except silly things they had seen and done that day. Douglas even started up a rhyming game, which didn't end until halfway through dinner.

Dinner passed so quickly that Martin barely knew it was happening.

He was too buy feeling thrilled, resting his ankle against Douglas' calf under the table, staring into his eyes, and laughing as they passed whispered judgement on the other guests in Fitton's nicest – which was still wasn't saying much – Oriental restaurant.

They walked back through Fitton arm in arm, Martin positively glowing. He hadn't felt so comfortable in months, despite the nerves racing underneath his skin. He glanced at Douglas from the corner of his eye and Douglas did the same every time. It was impossible to keep the smile from his face. At the end of Parkside Terrace, Martin struck up the nerve to say what he had been thinking for a while, but hadn't said in case he ruined the mood.

"Y-you know, for what it's worth, I think you should tell your parents."

He realised he had made a mistake when Douglas' arm slipped from his. Douglas sighed, shoulders rising defensively, as he strolled to a stop just outside the front gate. He turned so that he was facing Martin, and Martin stopped a few feet away – he could have come closer, but he wasn't sure where they stood yet.

"Martin... can we not talk about that now?"

"Wh-what do you want to talk about then?"

" _Anything_ ," Douglas replied, practically groaning with the weight of it. "Anything but _life_."

Nodding solemnly, Martin gathered his nerve. Douglas was right. He didn't want to think about the real world for now. There were more important things – more demanding urges tugging at his ribcage, pulling him nearer step by step. Cautiously, keeping his distance, Martin reached out to cup Douglas' cheek – to stroke a thumb past the curve of it, brow dipped, lips opened slightly in a silent question.

Douglas moved closer and before his hands clutched at Martin's shoulders, Martin pulled him in for a kiss – pressed their lips together slanted and eager to press closer, hands on his cheeks, arms getting in the way. He kissed him without breath, until their teeth clicked and he couldn't press any closer, giving in to the hot relief of it all as Douglas' arms went around him and tugged him even closer, boxing them both in.

The fence pressed against the backs of Martin's legs, but they still kissed, Martin not caring about the sounds that escaped his throat.

When they broke apart, Douglas didn't let Martin go. His eyes darted down to his chin, to his collar, and back up and he tried to school his features – charmingly tried to look unaffected as he always did, but was never quite successful.

"Actually, Martin, that's one of those things we should probably talk about," Douglas murmured, clearing his throat when his voice caught in it – low and practically dripping with the kiss he hadn't entirely pulled away from yet.

Martin shook his head, fighting the urge to just kiss him again.

"N-no, I don't think it is," he said. "Not right now. C-can't we just..."

Easily swayed, Douglas nodded and pulled Martin back to him. They kissed until they couldn't breathe, and then Martin forced himself to step out of reach. No amount of tugging on his jumper would return it to its former position.

"I-I should probably get inside," he stammered, motioning over his shoulder, towards the house. "I've got to, um... I-I've got to be up early. Dad's driving all the way out to Norwich to fix some company's circuits tomorrow – it's a long trip, so... I-I need to be up and alert."

"Of course," Douglas replied, cheeks pink as he nodded and stayed where he was, not following as he seemed eager to do.

Somehow they said goodnight, and Martin returned to the house feeling more awake than he had in months.

Even though he didn't want to, Douglas ended up telling his parents that he had dropped out of medical school. Just as he had expected, they weren't happy. Sitting in their house, bundled up on the sofa that he had spent his childhood bouncing on, Douglas wished that Martin were there to give them something else to disapprove of. They accepted it perfectly easily, although they had expected him to fly through – but that didn't mean they were happy about it.

Not at all.

To be honest, Douglas wasn't surprised when his mother paced and ranted, only to work herself into a begrudging silence. She sat now in front of the coffee table, facing him with a phone book under her nose. He had no idea what she was searching for, but given the way her eyes flashed up to him every now and then, he assumed she was searching for a number that she could call to return Douglas' ambition to him.

"And you should really move back in here," Alice muttered, flicking the pages of the phonebook with violent flicks of her wrist.

"So you can keep a closer eye on me?"

"Because you can't keep living with Ms Knapp-Shappey without paying rent, and you can't pay rent without your student loan," Alice replied sharply, and Douglas felt a slither of guilt.

Unwilling to admit that she was right, but knowing that she was, Douglas kept his mouth shut. He listened as she rambled on, pushing her neat and yet somehow unkempt hair behind her ears and pinning it with a pen.

"Honestly, Dougie, you should have come to us first instead of throwing in the towel," she said. "This is just s a wobble. We can't afford to waste time waiting a whole year before you can start again-"

"I'm not starting again," Douglas exclaimed, reigning his in frustration.

It was hard to seem determined from the sofa, but he didn't want to risk walking around in case he start another argument – or worse, got used to being in his home again.

"Well why not?" Alice demanded, abandoning her task to glare at him as if he had three heads.

"Because I don't _want_ to."

"What kind of an answer is that?"

"The truth!"

With a huff and a scowl, Alice turned back to the phonebook.

It was his father's reaction that surprised Douglas the most. Clarke had always been supportive – proud of having a son that would follow in his footsteps, but kind and gentle, patient where his mother was stern. He was his dad, in slippers and a dressing gown and spectacles and a pipe – he had expected sympathy and maybe a hug. What he got was a frown, confusion, and then a stony silence. Clarke had swept away to his bedroom, only returning to march through the kitchen and lounge, going about his day as if nothing had happened.

It hurt.

Douglas had never anticipated feeling so wounded.

Before he left, Douglas followed his father into the kitchen. While Clarke was occupied washing out a coffee mug, he took his chance.

"Dad-"

"I hope you realise how disappointed we are, Dougie."

Douglas was lost for words. He took a step back, even though his father hadn't made a single move towards him. The sideways glance was enough to fill him with shame. Clarke continued as if he had responded.

"After all the support we've given you, for years now-"

"You _know_ I have trouble," Douglas piped up.

"This isn't trouble, Dougie, this is giving up," Clarke replied. "We didn't raise a quitter."

After that, Douglas gave up. He trudged through Fitton, not stopping until he reached the Knapp-Shappey house. He stared at the frontage before entering. It couldn't last forever, this safe haven – his mother was right. With a heavy heart, he slipped inside, careful not to make too much noise. He couldn't deal with Arthur right now.

It wasn't until he reached the lounge that he ran into any signs of life, and even then it was only Carolyn. Douglas turned to carry himself off to bed, halfway through the afternoon. He didn't make it anywhere near the hall.

"Everything alright, Douglas?"

"Since when do you care?" Douglas muttered, but he turned back towards her and slumped into the room. He wanted to slouch into an armchair, but didn't want to get stuck without an escape or the energy to leave.

"I don't," Carolyn replied. "You're throwing off the mood of the house."

"Is that more of that hippie rubbish Herc's been feeding you?"

"Hippies don't listen to Tosca."

Douglas snorted, and dropped down on the end of the sofa. He angled himself so that Carolyn couldn't see his face, even though he could see her sipping a glass of sherry in front of the television. It was the news, so Arthur wasn't around.

"Now, what's wrong?" Carolyn asked, taking care not to pay him too much attention.

"My parents are furious," he said. "They also want me to move back in with them."

"Are you going to?"

"I can't stay here, can I?" Douglas grumbled. He pushed the back of his hand under his nose as the cavern in his chest groaned.

Carolyn turned her head from the television and looked at him as if he were mad.

"Whyever not?"

"Because I don't pay rent," Douglas answered, accepting his fate. "You can't afford to keep me. I can't figure out why you've kept me so far."

"Cheap labour," Carolyn replied without missing a beat. Sighing, she placed her glass down and turned towards him properly, folding her hands over her knees. She didn't smile, but she didn't frown either. "Douglas, you can stay here on one condition."

"What's that?"

"I want you running errands in the office – if it'll keep you from stagnating in here, I'll even let you answer the phone," she said. "Nothing like what Martin and Arthur are doing – they're getting paid. I mean coffee boy errands – nothing fancy, and nothing I'm willing to pay you for. However, I will _graciously_ let you live here."

The thought of working for free made Douglas' stomach turn, but it was better by miles than sitting around doing nothing and feeling sorry for himself. Fighting back a smile, Douglas launched himself to his feet – resisted the urge to hug Carolyn – and ran up to his room to phone Martin and tell him the news – the bad and the good.


	24. Chapter 24

Chapter Twenty-Four

Despite all the signs that Douglas should have been very disappointed, he was actually rather enjoying his new 'job' – unpaid with a rewards scheme in the form of a roof over his head. It wasn't a permanent solution, but he _liked_ answering MJN's phone and writing down appointments. It lacked the tedium and the stress of studying and the constant jeopardy of the medical world – it was the most fun he had ever had when he wasn't lazing around. With Martin and Arthur nearby most of the time, and accessible via sat-com when they were stewarding, he approached the Christmas period without any weight on his shoulders.

Most of the time, he sat with his feet up, spinning back and forth on his wheelie chair – _Carolyn's_ wheelie chair really, but she had surrendered it so that he had some time to breathe instead of running herself ragged trying to keep a company in check. She didn't let him do the paperwork – Douglas wouldn't have done it if she did. Instead, he had fun finding new ways to talk to potential customers.

It started out simply.

"Hello, MJN Air. How can we help you?"

Then Douglas got bored, and was spurred on by Martin and Arthur, who watched him during their breaks.

"MJN Air, where can we send you today?"

"Hello, MJN – a revolution in private-jettery."

"MJN Air, putting the excitement back into air travel – sometimes too much so."

"Will you stop that," Carolyn snapped after the eighteenth time, batting him with her scarf as she passed her desk. "If I lose customers because you can't keep your mouth shut, I will not be happy."

Douglas made sure only to play when Carolyn wasn't in the room.

"You're really good at this office work," Arthur said one lunchtime, when they all sat inside the porta-cabin, sprawling so much that Carolyn had told them to stop lazing about. Douglas had brought packed lunches for them all, and sat beside Martin on the sofa, sharing a slab of home-made tiramisu. Arthur had taken the desk-seat – all the better to check his emails. "Maybe you should keep doing it."

"I'm not sure, Arthur," Douglas replied, humming as he passed Martin his fork. "As nice as it is _here_ , I don't think I'm made for sitting around all day."

Martin snorted, and Douglas poked him in the ribs.

"Stay _here_ then," Arthur said. "You could help Mum run MJN."

"I'm afraid she's getting the bare minimum from me until she starts _paying_ me," Douglas replied. He sighed and sat back, sinking into the tattered cushions and dropping an arm along the back of the sofa, behind Martin's shoulders. "That's not to say I'm not _grateful_ – I _am_. However, there's only so much I'll do to put off the tedium."

"So you want to do something more exciting?" Arthur asked.

"I-I've never seen you do anything exciting without wanting something in return," Martin scoffed. He caught Douglas' eye and shot him a playful smile. "Honestly, I-I can't remember the last time I saw you happier than you are now, you lazy sod."

Douglas smirked, but didn't say more. It was true that he was happy, but... he missed the thrill of the dreams he had let slide. Sure, he didn't want to be a doctor, but he had wanted the reputation and the glamour – the reason to get up in the morning. He had wanted people to look at him and think he was doing something worthwhile.

It wasn't all bad. In the recent months, Douglas had time to read books at his own pace – filling in the gaps in his classical library – work through some of the music that he had wanted to try when he was at school, and redesign the company website on a scrap of paper.

For once, it snowed in December – not a lot, but enough to turn the ground a whitish-grey and to turn their breath into puffs like dragon's breath. Arthur took great joy from trudging through the snow, leaving tracks for people to follow. Douglas joined him once or twice, to make footprints that led in odd directions in the hopes that visitors to the airfield would follow them into out of bounds areas. He only stopped when Martin threatened to tell on him.

The winter months meant that an influx of clients – desperate to get away from the cold – was replaced soon by a lack of them. Nobody wanted to take off while there was frost on the runway, which meant that Carolyn had time to herself, and often spent it squirreled away with Herc, leaving the three of them alone to do as they pleased. Nigel the First Officer had no time for socialising, as he had 'a family at home' and wasn't eager to 'waste time faffing about on the airfield without pay'.

It was on one such day, a week before Christmas, that the three of them huddled up inside GERTI – without Carolyn's supervision.

Theresa was home from Cambridge, and inviting Tiffy along for the ride, they had all taken a trip down the local pub a few days beforehand – there had been song and embarrassment and Douglas had taken great pleasure from how delightfully pink Martin went when he was tipsy. He even refrained from getting drunk so that he could enjoy their evening together. Today, Theresa was with her family. Tiffy was skiing with her friends from the salon and would be back after the holidays. It was just the three of them now – the lads, home for Christmas.

"It's been ages since I've been in here," Douglas remarked when they entered the flight-deck.

"W-well, we shouldn't really be in here _now_ ," Martin said, but made no effort to leave. He was wearing the bashfully devious smirk that looked so good on him. "Herc would be furious – the CAA won't be happy if they find out."

Not that that stopped them.

They had fun for a while, entertaining themselves. Martin sat in the Captain's seat, Douglas in the First Officer's, wearing the hat that had been left in one of the cubby-holes. Arthur stayed with them for a while, joining in their word games as best he could, but after a while he popped out to make drinks – he returned and they relaxed, watching the pale sky and the snow falling outside the window. Douglas trailed his eyes along the dials and the buttons and wondered how easily Martin had memorised them all. A part of him wished he could do the same – it was an exciting prospect, controlling such a metallic beast with just a flick of a switch and a tug on the yoke.

"Getting wistful, Martin?" Douglas drawled, when Arthur had disappeared again and he caught Martin running his palm over one of the levels.

"Hmm?" Martin jumped slightly, and shot him a smile that was more of a grimace. "I-I guess... a bit..."

"You'll get there eventually."

"I-I know."

Douglas watched Martin a moment more. It was good to be able to do so – to admire his handsome face, growing more handsome now that they were older even though it hadn't lost its red flush or the mass of freckles. Martins' blue eyes were as bright as ever. They hadn't really discussed what was happening with them, although Douglas was sure that it had been mutually agreed that the love was still there – he certainly adored Martin, despite the strain of their faltering circumstances, and Martin was as eager as he had ever been to keep him close.

Surely they couldn't just keep having fun together – Douglas would love to, but they had to move on eventually. Life had to move on. Martin had his ever-changing plans. He needed some of his own.

As if reading his mind, Martin turned to him.

"What about you?" he asked. "H-have you been... thinking about... anything?"

"Not at the moment," Douglas replied. He didn't need to ask what Martin meant. "But I do want a _career_ , not just a job."

"That's good," Martin said. "I-I'm proud of you – really."

Martin reached out and took Douglas' hand in the gap between the seats, and squeezed. Douglas didn't say another word. He simply squeezed back and enjoyed the warmth of Martin's fingers around his.

It was nice to have someone who was proud of him despite his many downfalls.

Douglas turned his gaze towards the window. The outside was hidden in places by the frost and the lights that reflected from within the flight-deck. All that Douglas could see was his own face and the hat balanced atop it at an angle. He made quite a fetching pilot, even if he said so himself – he could imagine Martin looking the same, living the life of adventure.

Slowly, from the depths of his mind, an idea took form. Douglas stared at his reflection... and made a decision.

"Y-you're sure? I-I mean, I can do it – I _can_ , but are you-"

"I have complete faith in you, son," Raymond stopped Martin with a hand on his shoulder and a confident smile. He had a job booked for that afternoon, and he wanted Martin to take it alone – to drive the van across town and fix someone's plumbing _without_ him. "If you're going to keep at this for a while, you need your practice. We can't hold your hand forever."

Martin knew that wasn't the truth. As he stood in the hall, wrapped in three layers and another coat and scarf, he knew that his dad was lying. He had come down with various colds lately, and he seemed weary – Raymond refused to admit that he was ill, but he walked around with his hand over his chest, getting out of breath after too long on his feet. Wendy fussed over him and he carried on with a grin, but Martin could tell.

"Alright," Martin conceded. "I'll um... I-I'll let you know how it goes."

When he got outside, Douglas was waiting for him. Martin did his best to hide his surprise. He had told Douglas where he was going, but he hadn't expected him to turn up wrapped in just as many layers as him.

"And here I was hoping you'd be dressed to show off those muscles of yours," Douglas quipped once he was within earshot. He followed Martin into the garage and climbed into the van the moment it was unlocked.

Martin bit back a smirk – he didn't have muscles, per se – not _really_. He concentrated instead on the fact that Douglas was strapping himself in.

"Y-you coming with me, are you?"

"Of course I am," Douglas replied. "Nothing wrong with a little company. I quite fancy seeing you in action, Martin – a proper man at work."

Martin ignored the jab, swatting Douglas' hand away before he could dip into the glove-box.

On the journey to the client's house, Douglas was quiet. He gazed out the window, humming and listening as Martin explained the ins and out of the upcoming job, warning him not to touch a thing when they were there. It was nice – and strange – to have his love life and his difficult, working life collide, but there was something pleasant about the grounding feel of it. At the client's house, Martin worked on the boiler while Douglas leaned against an adjoining wall, talking about all the ways that this _real_ job – the one that was going to carry him towards his dream – could be improved, and Douglas kept nodding along, smiling as if he were impressed as he leaned with folded arms.

"See, I-I think we can be doing so much more with the van," Martin said as he tinkered. "I-it's a big vehicle, a-and yeah we fill the back with tools for these jobs, but if you've got a vehicle, y-you should use it. W-we could set up a removals business – o-or a courier's business, o-or anything to make use of the engine and the space for cargo."

"Is that so?"

"Y-yes, it's _so_. Plus the _hours_ we'd gain in pay if we added a job involving _drive time_."

"Very impressive."

The low sound of Douglas' voice was honest and comforting, and he sounded genuinely impressed. Martin liked to believe that he believed in him. It made it all worth it, really. Relishing his pride, he got back to work, careful not to let his hand slip.

Back in the van, Martin took some small pleasure in counting the fee and the large tip that Douglas had somehow managed to charm out of the client, despite not lifting a finger to do anything else. Some of it would go towards petrol on his next solo run, but the rest would go in his savings book – one more tiny addition to a monumental flying fund. Douglas fiddled with the radio until he finished, and then turned the radio off and turned to him.

"Are we done then?"

"Y-yeah, I guess," Martin replied, brow furrowing as he reached for the ignition. "Unless there's somewhere else you want to go-"

"Hmm, not quite what I was thinking, no," Douglas drawled. There was an odd look in his eye, a charming quirk of his lips and a languidness to his movements. He didn't fasten his seatbelt, but leaned close and brushed his knuckles over Martin's shoulder. "Have you thought, Martin, about the fact that no matter where we go, we're never entirely alone? There's always someone in your house, in Arthur's house, at the airfield..."

"Th-the van isn't a house," Martin stammered, even as he held Douglas' gaze.

"No, but it's very quiet," Douglas agreed. And with that he came close enough to kiss him, and did so, briefly touching his lips before moving down to his cheek, his chin, the curve of his neck. Martin swallowed hard, trying to follow the motion, and Douglas took advantage of that moment to speak again. "I'm sure if we took a short trip somewhere, we'd be very alone... just the two of us."

In spite of himself, Martin felt a rush of heat as he caught Douglas by the arm to stop him moving away. He accepted another kiss before pulling back.

"I-I'm not doing _anything_ with you in a van on the side of the road," he said, smirking through his fondness.

"Why not?"

" _Because_ -"

"Because what, Martin?"

Martin scoffed and nudged Douglas out of reach. He went without a fuss, grinning to himself, and Martin turned the ignition. As the engine grumbled into life, he did some quick thinking to decide just how respectable a person he wanted to be when he looked back on his life ten years from now.

Shopping with Arthur was a fool's errand at best, but with Fitton's paltry selection of shops it was a nightmare – the sort of nightmare that Douglas could enjoy, but still. Christmas had long since passed, and Spring was sweeping across the country in a flurry of sunlight and rain and busy people rushing about around three young men, one of whom wasn't busy at all. Douglas took some solace in being helpful, even if all he was doing was helping Arthur find a present for his girlfriend.

"Perhaps a book," Douglas suggested as they passed the local bookshop – a family owned business ailing beside the global chain that had opened four doors down from it. "What sort of thing does she like to read about?"

"I don't think she'd like a book," Arthur said, frowning and shaking his head, in a tone of voice that suggested _he_ didn't want a book, therefore nobody else would be getting one either. "Something shiny maybe. What do you think?"

"I think you know your bank account better than I do," Douglas muttered, but cut a path across the high street towards the small jewellers shop on the corner. "You want to start small though. Don't get her anything too flashy."

"But she's got the position full time now."

"I _know_ , but maybe save the _real_ shiny items for a bigger occasion," Douglas said. "An anniversary perhaps."

Arthur reluctantly agreed, and they spent far too much time hovering outside the window, peering in at bracelets and charms. Douglas tried to offer advice, but Arthur had his heart set on doing it himself – on picking out the gaudiest, brightest item he could with a cheerful grin on his face.

They went for lunch in a small cafe.

"It's nice this," Arthur said, mouth stuffed full of bread and prosciutto. "Us I mean. It's been ages since we've hung out without the others."

"Getting bored of them already, are you?"

"No, I just mean it's like old times, isn't it?"

"I know what you mean, Arthur," Douglas said. "It is nice, I suppose. Oddly quiet."

Just then, Douglas' phone vibrated in his pocket. He checked it under the table while Arthur was distracted, opening the email and reading through it as quickly as he could. The secrecy of it all made his stomach turn, but he couldn't help the flush of pride he felt as seeing that every single application he had made to every flight school had been accepted – now all he had to do was wait for them to decide whether to invite him to interviews. Taking care not to look too pleased with himself, Douglas tucked his phone away.

He hadn't told Martin that he had applied. He hadn't told anyone. In all honestly, Douglas was only just getting used to thinking of himself as a potential pilot. It had been so long since he had first started thinking of Martin in uniform that thinking of himself... it was all quite exciting. It was hard work – Martin's stress was proof of that – but it was mostly hands on, practical work, with written work that related directly to the job – none of that theory of medicine or chemical equations rubbish that he had hated.

And then... he could go anywhere he wanted, fly a dangerous vehicle, look cool doing it- he'd have stories to tell and people to impress. He could visit every single one of his pen-pals – give them all the gifts they wanted.

Douglas could see why Martin was so in love with the idea.

"You alright, Douglas?" Arthur fixed him with a curious stare, lightly baffled as he dusted off his crumbed fingers. "You've gone a bit dreamy."

"I'm fine, Arthur. Just thinking."

"Are you sure, because sometimes when people look like you do, they're worrying about horrible things," Arthur said. "Or they want to say something, but they're too nervous, and you've got to use your initiative and find out."

"Learn that on one of your courses did you?"

"Yep."

"Well I'm not worried about anything," Douglas replied. He didn't want to jinx his efforts. Wiping clean his own hands, Douglas rose to his feet and turned towards the exit, confident that Arthur would follow. "In fact, I'm just wondering what I could cook tonight to keep your mother off my back. Something high in starch, or sweet and sugary."

"Oh, both would be brilliant!"

Douglas chuckled and clipped Arthur with his elbow as he strode ahead, turning on his heel. It _was_ good, being home. He wasn't sure how he had ever survived in Oxford, trudging through day after day of torture.

"Excellent," he exclaimed. "Race home? First one back has to wash the dishes."

Arthur was so enthusiastic in his attempt to streak ahead that he tripped over his own feet, and Douglas was able to settle into a slow jog, stopping every now and then to make sure that he was at least following close by.

Martin watched Douglas from across the room, building up his nerve.

Douglas wandered around his bedroom, fiddling with his model aircraft the way he always did. Now, he was gentler than he used to be, touching rather than flicking and he was careful not to send the hanging ones swinging out of control. It was now or never. His parents were in, but his sister was out, which meant they wouldn't be interrupted. Nothing terrible would happen, but this was a moment that needed peace and quiet and emotional closeness, not rows and heavy-footed distractions.

Martin watched Douglas for a little while longer, wishing that he could find the right words.

There were too many words in his head that he knew how to use, but could never quiet untangle with his tongue. There were more than weren't words at all, hot and sweet and sort of ever-present in his chest and his stomach and shivering under his skin. It was less of a presence and more of an awareness of how much he had hated the empty feeling that came with being apart. Douglas wasn't perfect by any means, but he made Martin feel just perfect enough, even when they were bickering.

"Douglas?"

Douglas turned and raised an eyebrow.

"Hmm?"

"C-could you – could you sit down a moment?" Martin asked, nodding towards the bed. "I-I need to ask you something. It's important."

Douglas did as he was asked, Martin was relieved to see. Hands tucked behind his back so that Douglas couldn't see them shaking, Martin mirrored his actions, coming to sit on the opposite end of his bed, just out of reach. Conscious of Douglas' eyes on him and the curious, guarded expression he wore, Martin took a deep breath and blurted out what he wanted to say.

" _Moveinwithme_!"

"I'm... sorry?" Douglas replied, frowning slightly.

"W-would you move in with me?" Martin asked. He saw Douglas' eyes dart towards the closed door, and he hurried onwards, shaking his head to clear it of the clouds that had formed inside his skull. "I-I mean, not _here_ – obviously we can't all fit in this house. I mean, you and me – you and I get a flat maybe. Together. If you'd like to. I-I'd like to – I'd love to actually-"

"Martin..."

"Yes?"

Douglas faltered, biting his lip in an unfamiliar gesture. His hands came together in his lap and Martin watched him from afar, itching to reach out to him. He hadn't explained himself properly.

"Martin, I... I'd love to live with you – I really, _truly_ would," Douglas said. And the way he looked at him, Martin knew he was telling the truth. He looked like he was half a twitch away from clutching at his heart. "But..." Martin's heart sank and Douglas hurried on. "But I don't think you've... I'm not sure how that would work with-"

"Not here – n-not in Fitton," Martin interrupted. Panic seized around his lungs, but he fought through it. He had given this a lot of thought – not as much as he could have done, but his heart was in it completely. "I-I mean, let's go somewhere, you and me – a-and we can live together."

"What about all your plans?"

"I-I can't study for my PPL in Fitton," Martin explained. "I-I've thought it through, see – I've got to go somewhere else, a-a different airfield, one with an instructor who lives nearby, a-and... and it might take a while to find, b-but when we do, we could... we could start something wherever that is, Douglas. Just the two of us."

Douglas frowned again, lines appearing at his brow, and Martin knew that he was thinking – wondering and doubting. He spoke quickly to fill the air.

"I-I want to live with you, Douglas. We're doing so well, a-and we could do... we could carry on like we are, w-without everything else-"

"But everything else is still there," Douglas cut across him. "And our friends."

"We'd still be friends," Martin said.

"What about _me_?"

"W-well you'd be living with _me_."

"No, I mean _me_ – _my plans_ – you want to fund your own training and go wherever that takes you, but what about _my_ career and _my_ future," Douglas continued. He rose up on his knees so that he could shift closer, put himself in front of Martin – not too close, but close enough that there was an illusion of privacy. "This is about the time of year people are sending off applications-"

"Y-you haven't though."

For a moment, Douglas pressed his lips into a thin line. A flicker of suspicion sparked in Martin's chest, but it was gone a moment later as Douglas shook his head and pushed a hand through his hair. Douglas schemed over a lot of things, but this was just his nerves – his self-confidence and his misery at dropping out of medical school.

"No, I haven't sent anything off yet," Douglas said, tone clipped. "The application period for _any_ school doesn't close for months... and I've never been one to act before the very last minute, have I?"

"No, you haven't," Martin chuckled weakly under his breath. He tried to catch Douglas' eye but Douglas looked away and sagged. Quickly, he changed the subject. "So you're... y-you're thinking about a career?"

"Only in the abstract."

"So you don't know what you're doing yet?"

"No."

"S-so we _could_ move in together-"

" _No_ , Martin..." Douglas' voice rose for only a second before trailing off, laced with exhaustion. Martin swallowed a pang of hurt as he watched Douglas accept his fate, and a slither of bitterness that he knew he didn't deserve – not long ago he had been willing to go _anywhere_ – to break things off for the greater good. Douglas continued with a huff and a scowl aimed at his own hands. "If we move in together, I'll only have to go away again if something comes up... I want to – Martin I _want_ to... but I don't want to start something that we can't keep... I can't keep stopping and starting."

"S-so what?" Martin snapped. "We just keep splitting up and coming back together when everything goes tits up?"

Douglas snorted, but there was no humour in it.

"Not splitting up, no," he said. "Just standing still."

Martin shook his head and closed his eyes. The momentary dark did nothing to soothe his nerves. For a fleeting minute, he had believed that they would have something perfect to carry on with – now... the worst thing was that it made sense in a miserable way. With no idea what else to do, but not wanting a fight, Martin moved to Douglas' side and leaned against him, arm to arm.

"I-I s'pose it's better than nothing."

Douglas grunted, and that was all the answer he was given.

Martin let him have his silence. All he could do was wonder what the hell Douglas was going to do with the rest of his life if he didn't stop messing around and wallowing in self-pity – they couldn't keep going around in circles.


	25. Chapter 25

Chapter Twenty-Five

As the weather improved, Douglas made a habit of going outside to watch GERTI land after the end of a long trip. A part of him wished that he could go with them, but it was crowded on board and the porta-cabin was peaceful. Today, however, Douglas was glad that he was on the ground – the screeching of the wheels as GERTI was _slammed_ into the tarmac, arriving safely but with the force of a comet.

Douglas hurried back into the porta-cabin before the others could arrive. Hastily taking a seat behind the desk and bringing the phone to his ear, he waited until the door slammed open before putting the phone down. He opened his mouth to speak, but was shocked to see that it was only Nigel – the others were nowhere in sight. He didn't even get a chance to find his voice before the First Officer stormed to his desk, tipped his in-tray into his bag, and then snatched up his coat.

"Interesting flight, was it?" Douglas asked, glancing towards the door.

Still, the others didn't appear.

"I don't get paid enough for this," Nigel growled, huffing and puffing as he collected his things. His pilot's hat was tossed onto the now empty desk, and his tie was tugged out of place. "You tell Carolyn I'm handing in my resignation."

"A _verbal_ resignation?"

"I'm not hanging around any longer," Nigel replied. "I'll have my uniform sent back."

With that, Nigel was gone, not looking nearly as impressive as he must have thought he did. Douglas watched him go, wondering whether he should follow him, but knowing that he wouldn't. It wasn't worth the effort. He fiddled with the computer until the door swung open again, and Carolyn marched in, with Martin, Arthur, and Herc in tow.

"Is he gone then?" Carolyn demanded as she tossed her coat over the back of a chair. Douglas nodded and she scowled. "Good riddance."

"Not all that good, Carolyn," Herc remarked as he sighed and retreated behind his own desk. Although he set out the post-flight paperwork, he made no move to complete it as he shared surreptitious glances with Martin and Arthur, who were huddling down on the tattered sofa. "We can't fly outside Europe with only one pilot. If you don't find someone to replace him soon, you're going to lose money."

"So Nigel's really gone then?" Douglas asked. Martin tried to catch his eye, hastily shaking his head, but Douglas ignored him as he fixed his slouch and caught Carolyn's attention. "I thought he was just throwing a tantrum."

"He's _gone_ alright," Carolyn said. "If I get my hands on him..."

Eager not to endure her wrath, Douglas vacated his seat and let her have her desk back. Dropping down onto the arm of the sofa, bringing his feet up onto the cushions, he squeezed in with Martin and Arthur, ducking down so that they wouldn't be overheard.

"What happened?"

"It was a _nightmare_ ," Martin groaned, dragging his hands down his face. He pushed back the sleeves of his shirt and looked up at Douglas with so much misery that Douglas actually felt sorry for him. "I-I've never been on a flight like that."

"It wasn't _that_ bad," Arthur said. "It was just... messy..."

"No, i-it was _horrible_ ," Martin insisted. He leaned against Douglas' leg and sagged, for once defeated by the toils of his job. "There were musicians, a-and they were all shouting , and they all wanted different things, a-and then the pilots..."

"They didn't like us hiding in the flight-deck, did they?" Arthur remarked.

"Nigel didn't," Martin agreed. "He especially didn't like having to come out and deal with the... w-with the... _god_..."

Douglas snorted, and shook his head, hiding his grin behind his hand. He didn't think Martin would appreciate how funny he found the whole thing. He had never like Nigel – he was dull and he never turned up for work just for the fun of it. Getting his amusement under control, Douglas dropped his arm down behind Martin and trailed his fingers along the back of his neck, where his hair met his nape. Martin relaxed into his touch, rolling his eyes at the sheer awfulness of the situation.

In spite of himself, Douglas smiled as he thought of the sudden vacancy in the flight-deck. If things went well, it would still be years until he got any kind of license to fly, and yet... the thought of an opening at MJN spurred on the hopeful heat in his chest, making him all the more determined. This was the right decision, he convinced himself – he hadn't told anyone yet, but... yes... Douglas wanted to be a pilot.

Obviously, MJN wasn't a proper airline, but it was familiar and homely, and nothing like what he imagined a big airline to be like – he would be with friends.

No... Douglas took a deep breath and removed his hand from Martin's hair. He was getting ahead of himself. Nothing was set in stone yet. He hadn't even heard back from every school yet. Clearing his throat, Douglas looked over Martin's head, to Arthur.

"So what exactly triggered Nigel's fit then?"

Arthur smiled guiltily – then not guiltily at all – beamed at the memory.

"It really wasn't that bad," he said, picking at his sleeve and glancing towards his mother. "I don't understand why everyone made such a fuss."

"You wouldn't," Martin muttered.

"They were only a bit loud," Arthur said. "And they wouldn't stay in their seats. And one woman kept panicking about everything – but the rest were really nice. I got to eat loads of cheesecake as well, but that's a _whole_ other story."

While Arthur told the story, and Martin chipped in to declare his irritation with the whole flight – none of which made him want to stop flying, only to move on to a better, more professional company – Carolyn raged and Herc dutifully tried to placate her whilst filling out the paperwork. Douglas watched them all, only half listening, and wondered just how he was going to cope without them... _again_.

Looking around the Knapp-Shappey guest room, Martin found it impossible to tell that Douglas hadn't lived there his whole life. It was a mess – clothes hung over every horizontal surface, books half-read and abandoned on the floor, and his laptop the only thing at right angles to the desk, open and lit up, plugged into a socket that was already overflowing with an adaptor that let him charge all of his devices at once.

Douglas was still sprawled on his bed, recovering from a fumble that hadn't descended into anything more intimate – maybe later, he had said. Martin was happy enough to leave him to his reading, slow as it was, and decided to check his emails. It was a peaceful process – he took far too long gazing back at his boyfriend, wondering how he had become so lucky. Things had just sort of fallen into place, and he had no idea how.

Forcing himself to focus, Martin turned back to the computer and waggled his finger on the touchpad. He went to log in, only to find that Douglas hadn't logged out. He was just about to do so for him, muttering fondly under his breath, when the top entry – bold and embossed – caught his eye.

The word 'Admissions' piqued his interest, and Martin clicked through. He knew that he shouldn't have, but he couldn't help it. If Douglas was trying to get his life back in gear, that was a good thing. He shot Douglas a glance and a smirk over his shoulder – he was probably embarrassed after dropping out of Oxford and eager not to make a fuss.

Martin's heart stopped when his eyes met the screen again. The email had opened, and the words were laid out before him. His finger froze over the keyboard.

Oxford Aviation Academy.

Douglas had applied to Oxford Aviation Academy. If this email was telling the truth, he had applied, attended an interview, and been accepted – all in the past few months, without telling him. They had spent so many days together – but then again, Martin remembered, there had been long jobs in the van and Douglas had had time to go wherever he wanted – he had even disappeared for a few days, here and there, to visit his brother.

Martin's head span.

Then the reality of what he was seeing fell upon his shoulders. Sinking back into the comfortable desk-chair, Martin turned slowly. Douglas still lay there, oblivious to the tension that had crept into life underneath Martin's skin – he wanted to snap at him, to bite at the acid on the tip of his tongue and demand to know what was going on.

Instead, he tapped the touchpad on the laptop to make sure the screen didn't turn black.

"Douglas..."

"Hmmm?"

Douglas didn't look up from his book. He was calm and comfortable and Martin had to fight the urge to storm over to him. Taking a deep breath, Martin cleared his throat and pointed to the screen.

"What's this?"

"That?" Douglas replied, and this time he looked up. Seeing the expression on Martin's face, he ambled to his feet and crossed the room, ducking down to see the email. Martin watched his eyes flicker back and forth as realisation dawned. For a moment he looked like he was about to tell him off for reading his emails – then Douglas paled and tugged at his collar, pulling the button from its hole. "Oh... Ah, about that..."

"You applied to _flight_ - _schools_?" Martin asked, arms folded, glaring up at him. He wasn't sure whether he was angry or aghast. All he knew was that he was fighting not to stand up and encroach on Douglas' space.

"Yes," Douglas said, sheepishly looking to the floor. "I did do that."

" _Why_?"

"I've decided - with quite a lot of thought behind that decision - that I want to become a pilot," Douglas explained. He took a step back, out of reach, hands wringing together before he tucked them behind his back and swayed even further back.

Martin scoffed dryly, eyes wide as he stared across the room. His palm was pressed flat against the desk – as flat as it could go with pens and papers strewn everywhere – and only the painful ache in his wrist kept him from going dizzy with confusion.

"S-since _when_?"

"Since I need a _career_ , Martin," Douglas shot back, and this time there was a bite in his tone that hadn't been there before. Harsh lines appeared at the bridge of his nose and his stubborn pout became a hard line.

And yet, Martin couldn't take him seriously. There was no spinning in his ears or heat in his head – just frustration gnawing at the base of his throat, making his fingers flex where they lay against his knee.

"Wh-what? Your dream falls through so you'll have mine?" he muttered, biting his tongue at the last moment.

"That's not what this is-"

"Y-you did this all behind my back," Martin exclaimed. "What did you think I-I'd - I'd be jealous?"

"Martin-"

"B-because I can't think of any reason why you might keep _this_ a secret," Martin continued. Douglas was rooted to the spot, pale and staring, chest heaving as he held back, but Martin couldn't feel any sympathy. He jabbed at the computer screen, wishing he could figure out whether he was upset or furious. "It's only _everything_ I've ever wanted. I-it's only all my hopes and dreams, my whole future - they've rejected me twice but _Douglas_ _Richardson_ signs up a-and they're practically dragging you through the door."

"Martin, it's not like that," Douglas said, voice clipped and curt but raised just loud enough to be heard as he took a step towards him, hands pressed together as if in prayer.

"Th-then what _is_ it like?" Martin demanded, launching himself to his feet.

Douglas ground to a halt the moment Martin was level with him – he was taller but that didn't matter. His eyes were still wide, his lips trembling as his thoughts raced across his face too fast to read. Swallowing so hard that Martin saw his throat bob, Douglas gave a half-hearted shrug and pushed a hand through his hair.

"I didn't want to tell you until I was _sure_."

"Because you knew I'd be upset," Martin shot back.

"I wanted you to be _proud_ of me," Douglas insisted, and his voice lost some of its heat.

Martin's retort died on his tongue as the meaning of that struck him, but the anger didn't fade. Clenching his hands at his sides, he paced back and forth – no more than two feet in either direction – before fixing Douglas with a stern glare and pointing across the space, directly over his heart.

"S-since when do _you_ want to be a _pilot_?"

"I've spent years listening to you go on and on about it..." Douglas replied weakly, almost immediately. He shrugged again, as if genuinely guilty, and for a moment his lips twitched into a hopeful smile. "Martin, it's _perfect_ for me."

"Of course it is," Martin spat, even as a bitter part of him knew that he was right. Douglas would be good at whatever he did – once he had his mind set on something, he got there eventually. That didn't make it easier to face him instead of glaring daggers at the clutter – the mess of his room instead of Douglas' face. It just wasn't fair. "Y-you mean _you're_ perfect at everything."

"You _know_ that's not true," Douglas gritted out, smile fading instantly. He looked towards the window, fidgeting as Douglas never did, not coming any closer. "And I've spent years at the airfield - on GERTI - I don't know why I ever thought I belonged anywhere else. I can do it, Martin. I really want to."

In spite of himself, Martin felt a pang of sympathy. Douglas really did look miserable – and he was making more sense than he usually did. It would be just as easy to cross the space and hug him as it would be to shake some sense into him. Closing his eyes to cast away the effect Douglas' face had on him, Martin dug his nails into his palms and tried to decide what he was most upset about. Slowly but surely, the reality of the situation settled over him like a cloak – Douglas had applied, he had got in, he was probably going to flight-school to become a pilot... and this was the first he was hearing of it.

"Wh-why didn't you tell me?" Martin asked. There was a moment of silence, and Martin opened his eyes. Holding Douglas' gaze was hard, but he managed it, even as he pointed again to the damned screen. "This application – th-this is going to get you into flight-school _this_ year."

Douglas looked away again, going even paler. His hand went to his hair and his eyes went to the floor. It was very clear in that moment that Douglas had had no intention of telling him, and hadn't thought about what would happen if he needed to.

Martin actually felt sorry for him. His heart lurched in his chest as he watched the other boy's hands wind together, and he wanted to reach out to him. By the time Douglas opened his mouth, Martin's anger had fizzled into something damp and uncomfortable under his skin, leaving him exhausted.

"I..."

"D-did you think I wouldn't miss you?" Martin asked, harshly, wishing that he didn't have to hear the answer.

Giving in, he moved to drop onto the edge of the bed, hands folded over his knees.

Douglas sank down beside him.

"I didn't want to hurt you," he said. He placed a hand on Martin's knee and Martin didn't shake him off. That seemed to spur him on. "It's not fair that you didn't get in."

"No it's bloody well not," Martin muttered.

"Exactly," Douglas agreed, squeezing more confidently. "And I didn't want to hurt you by saying I was going if I didn't get in."

"B-but you _did_ get in, a-and you are going away," Martin replied, fighting the urge to snap as it crept up his throat. He hated himself for it, but he was starting to come around – he could picture Douglas in a gleaming uniform, sitting in the flight-deck like he always had, so much more clearly than he could picture himself. It wasn't fair. Martin dropped his head into his hands and scrubbed his eyes with the heels of his palms. "This is like medical school all over – y-you're leaving _again_."

"I _have_ to," Douglas insisted, and when Martin's head shot up he looked him in the eye, big brown eyes serious and unwavering.

"W-when I wanted to move away, I-I asked you to come with me," Martin said, working through the lump in his throat. Suddenly, he didn't care that Douglas was going to fly through flight-school without a care – realisation dawned on him with the weight of a storm, and a familiar clot of bitter resentment twisted in his chest. "I-I asked you to move in with me - but you're just _running_ _away_."

"Don't tell me you wouldn't have done the same thing if you'd gotten into flight-school instead of having to fund it all yourself," Douglas shot back.

He didn't understand, Martin thought. This was bigger than just their careers.

"M-maybe, years ago, when I wasn't having to scrimp a-and save and find my own damned instructor," Martin said, voice low and hard. Jerking out of Douglas' reach, missing the warm weight on his knee immediately, Martin rose to his feet and paced, dragging his hand across the back of his neck. "B-but _Douglas_... My priorities have changed since then. Getting my career isn't the most important thing anymore."

Douglas rolled his eyes.

"Oh _really_."

"R- _really_. I'm not willing to just throw everything overboard for a pilot's license - my future isn't just flying anymore," Martin explained, hating that he had to explain at all. "It's _us_... I-it's us, _together_ , having a future... I don't know what that involves, but... I-I want us."

Grinding to a halt, Martin turned back to Douglas, hoping for an end to the discussion. Instead, he found Douglas staring up at him, brow furrowed like he had made a decision – there was sadness in his expression and he was no longer fidgeting. Martin's heart sank and he sniffed, shaking his head as Douglas spoke.

"Martin..." Douglas paused, swallowed hard, and then continued. He stood, came closer, and tried to take Martin's hands. When Martin didn't let him, he frowned but didn't look away. "It could take _years_ for you to get the money together. There's no way of knowing you'd even end up in the same corner of the country as me - you'll have to move to go wherever the instructor lives. I can get into flight-school now... I don't want to wait."

There was such finality in Douglas' voice – more than he had ever heard before – that Martin felt his eyes burn. A part of him knew that there was no use in fighting it. In opening that email, he had irreversibly altered the course of things.

"Wh-what about our future together?"

"I want that-"

"Th-then why would you keep this from me?"

"Because it's not as easy as you-"

"I-it _is_ easy," Martin replied sharply. "I want to be a pilot. I want to be your boyfriend too."

"I can't _just_ be your boyfriend, Martin," Douglas sighed, just as firmly.

Martin froze – he hadn't realised he was moving.

"Wh-what?"

Douglas stammered for a moment – mouth flapping as his eyes darted everywhere but Martin's face. Eventually, he brought his hands together- then he reached out and Martin refused to let him take his hands again.

"I _can't_..." Douglas sniffed and covered his eyes with his hand before ploughing onwards, as if he were steeling himself. "I can't _not_ do this so that we can stay together." He saw Martin shake his head and scowl, more hurt than angry, and he hurried forwards. It didn't matter that Martin tried to step out of his way – Douglas grasped his arms, not hard enough to keep him there, but Martin didn't pull away and Douglas _almost_ smiled as he looked Martin dead in the eye. " _Listen_ \- I have spent so much time doing what everyone else wants - now I want to be a pilot. I want this, for _me_. I love you so much but I can't be... I'm only your boyfriend as long as you're around. Maybe years ago that would have been okay but it's not now. I need to concentrate on what I want and what I want is to go to flight-school, even if that means leaving you here, or wherever you go to get your license."

If Douglas were upset for any other reason, Martin would have pulled him closer. Instead, he placed one hand over the fingers on his arm, squeezing and not sure what he wanted to do with them – they were solid and straining beneath his, and Martin nearly choked on the lump in his throat.

The worst thing was how much sense Douglas was making.

"Douglas..."

"You're enough for me, Martin. _You_ are," Douglas said. They were so close now that it took a moment to realise that Douglas was whispering, so softly, trying his hardest to maintain eye contact. "This isn't _about_ you. But _me_ \- this version of me - it's not enough."

"Nobody's asking you to be perfect," Martin murmured, wrapping Douglas' fingers more securely against his palm.

Douglas sighed, and leaned back, holding him at arm's length. Martin had no choice but to go with the motion, allowing him to tip back his chin and look Douglas in the face – a face that was stiff and firmly fixed in an expression of self-assured determination.

" _I_ am."

There was no point even fighting it, Martin knew.

"I-I love you," he said, as if that had ever been enough to change things.

"Would you give up trying to be a pilot if I asked?" Douglas asked sadly.

"No."

"There we go then."

Douglas made no effort to stop Martin when he tore himself away and stormed from the room, and Martin didn't hear him following when he thundered from the house. There was nothing he could do to change things. That didn't mean he had to be happy about it.

Although Martin certainly wasn't happy about Douglas' decision to go to flight-school, Douglas was glad when within the week, matters were settled between them. There were kisses, embraces, more sharp words – and it was decided. Douglas was going to flight-school when the school year started. There would be no break-up, and no promises that they stay together forever – they would just go on as they were until they couldn't anymore. It wasn't a solution, but it was better than letting animosity linger between them.

That was what made Douglas absolutely certain that what they had was love – the kind that would endure even the worst of times. Talking might have been the more conventional way of doing things, but Douglas was glad to just spend time with Martin and get on with his life without having the same horrible conversations over and over again.

They were only young, after all.

Douglas wasn't sure how he found himself sneaking into his old secondary school – well, sneaking was probably a generous word. He walked through the front door, asked for the Headmistress, was told to wait for her to get back from assembly, then went to her office anyway and left a bouquet of flowers on her desk before hastily running away.

If anyone deserved flowers, it was good old Mrs Smith. Douglas knew that he wouldn't be anywhere near to where he was if she hadn't forced Martin to tutor him. So, flowers it was. Douglas left the school feeling as light as a cloud.

There was a skip in his step when he ran into Martin halfway through Fitton.

It turned out Martin had been heading towards Arthur's house in the hopes of finding him. Rolling his eyes at Douglas' antics, blushing with embarrassment at the thought of what Mrs Smith would say when she found the flowers, Martin walked arm in arm with him back to Arthur's house, and neither of them said a word about the future.

There was no need to – although nobody said it out loud, their gathering that night was as close to a goodbye party as Douglas was going to get.

The party took place at the airfield. Arthur's enthusiasm touched not only the decorations and the music, but the food as well... which meant that nobody else touched the food more than necessary. Everyone was there. Theresa had even come back from Cambridge for the weekend to throw her arms around them all, say how much she had missed them, and wish Douglas luck – all while making it clear just how jealous she was with a smile and a pinch. Carolyn came very close to getting teary, and when Douglas tried to play the keyboard that Arthur had dug out from a charity shop, Herc butted in to serenade them all, which rather took the fun out of it as Carolyn went even more dewy eyed.

When the sky outside the window turned an inky shade of black, Douglas slipped outside. Martin was right behind him, slipping his hand into his and winding their fingers together without prompting, staying close as if he didn't dare breathe air that hadn't been shared – he had been quiet, and Douglas was starting to miss his voice.

They ended their walk at the foot of the ATC tower, where they could see any incoming aircraft if they so wished. For once, there were none, and Douglas couldn't help feeling like that was an omen of some sort.

Martin's hand never left his, but he pulled his knees to his chest and sighed.

"Th-this was never permanent, was it?"

"How d'you mean?" Douglas replied, although the heaviness in his heart understood perfectly.

"I-I mean _us_ ," Martin explained. "W-we started out sneaking around for crying out loud... a-as much as we... as much as I feel about you, a-and vice versa... th-this was never meant to last, n-not as a relationship."

Douglas wanted to argue. He couldn't.

"The feelings are real," he said gently. "I love you."

"Y-yeah, I know," Martin said. He sighed again, resting his chin against his knees. He turned his head so that Douglas could see his face. "W-when you think about the future – a-about your life, a-and your love, what do you imagine? W-what did you imagine before you met me?"

Douglas shifted, wishing he was wearing a thicker coat. It wasn't that cold out, but the chills were there. Martin's hand was there too, still there.

"I suppose... I wanted to settle down. Still do, actually," Douglas answered honestly. The light from ATC illuminated a small patch of ground in front of them, but the rest of the airfield – the rest of Fitton – was hidden from sight. "You know... a significant other, a house, a job... children maybe. Putting down roots and settling down."

"Me too," Martin said, barely a breath. He frowned and then sat back, head touching the tower. "W-we were never that, were we?"

"There's no reason we couldn't be."

"E-except there is," Martin sighed. "Wh-why do I always feel like I'm watching you go off somewhere?"

"Maybe because when we first met, I thought I'd be sending _you_ off to become a pilot while I sat at home with my failed exams and my disappointed parents," Douglas replied.

Martin laughed – a short, light sound – and Douglas smiled into his arms as he mirrored Martin's slouch of before. One hand remained in Martin's and he squeezed. The tight squeeze he earned in return eased some of the worries that buzzed around his ears like gnats.

As he lifted the last of Douglas' bags into the back of a taxi, Martin felt a pang of finality – like the clang of a gong. The boot slammed shut and he faced Douglas across the sheet of dusty metal.

"Third time's a charm," Douglas said, missing the sparkle that he wore so well.

"I-it better be," Martin replied, fighting a wobbling lip with an even wobblier smile. He rounded the back of the car until he stood in front of Douglas. Not caring what he looked like, Martin pulled him into a hug – arms around his shoulders and his back, clutching at him like a lifeline. When he pulled back, he tried to look in Douglas' eyes but Douglas still gripped his arms, holding him so close that their foreheads touched. That was nicer, he thought, as he spluttered, "I-I mean it. If you don't do this right, I-I'm giving up on you. This is your last chance."

"Sounds fair," Douglas murmured.

He kissed him, hands on his cheeks, aching not to pull away.

In the end they had no choice.

Martin had to breathe, and then he had to extricate himself, because nothing would happen if they stay in the street – night would fall and then they'd just be two idiots standing around in the dark. Douglas seemed to feel the same, as he buried his hands in his pockets. There was no point in drawing it out.

"You'll keep in touch?" Douglas asked.

"T-try and keep me away," Martin replied. "N-not literally away... I-I can't..."

"You can't keep running after me," Douglas concluded with an assured nod. It had been his plan anyway that had got them into this mess. Martin watched patiently as he composed himself, hand under his nose, nodding to himself. "Let me know where you end up studying," he said. "You _will_ get there eventually. And you won't give up."

"Y-you sure about that?"

"I know you, Martin. You won't give up."

They didn't say goodbye in so many words. Martin sort of stopped thinking until Douglas was in the taxi, and only then did he wave, teary eyed but resigned, until the car was out of sight. He followed it into the street, and wondered once again just what exactly had happened to his life to bring him _here_ again.


	26. Chapter 26

Chapter Twenty-Six

It was the first time Douglas had stepped foot in Fitton for a year, and he wished that the circumstances were better. As the taxi pulled away, he stood on the pavement, adjusting the lines of his tidy black suit. The breeze whipped through his hair and he grimaced as he brushed it back into place with the back of his hand. His eyes were riveted on the house halfway along Parkside Terrace. It was ever so familiar, but now the bricks were daunting and unwelcoming.

For the first time, Douglas wished that he was anywhere else in the world.

It was strange to think that a week ago he had been so eager to come. Then circumstances had changed and it had become the most important thing in the world that he turn up and look his best – be on his best behaviour.

Gathering his nerve, Douglas went to the gate and made his way along the garden path. He didn't knock at first. The twisting in his stomach persisted as he raised his fist and composed himself – for once, he had no idea what to say and he hadn't even faced anyone yet. The knock reverberated, far too loud, in the quiet street. Douglas forced himself not to fidget as he waited for the door to open.

It was Simon who answered.

Douglas was half-heartedly interested to see that the man's moustache had grown into a busy ferret-like affair. However, he greeted the other man solemnly, sticking out his hand to shake and shuffling into the house and removing his coat.

"It's good to see you, old boy," Simon said lowly as he led him deeper into the house – past the flowers and the carefully arranged ornaments brought out only before funerals.

The curtains were pushed aside and carefully pinned into place, letting sunlight stream into the house, and yet the air seemed muffled, caught on a single inhalation. Simon paid none of it any notice, and led Douglas into the kitchen, which was empty but filled with food on platters, covered in a layer of cling-film – ready for the wake.

"Dad had a lot of friends," Simon said, touching his fingers to his moustache as he navigated the kitchen. "Most are meeting us at the church. Not sure how we're all going to fit in here for the wake – open all the doors, Mum says."

"Is there anything I can do to help?" Douglas asked. He had never been close to Martin's older brother, but his heart went out to him.

"No, no... Caitlin's been a busy bee," Simon replied. He reached for a bottle of wine and poured himself a glass, offering Douglas the bottle until Douglas shook his head. "She and Mum are just the same. They like to get on with things." Simon sighed and sipped his wine, frowning into it before looking up again. "I s'pose you want to see Martin?"

"Is he in?"

"He's in his room," Simon replied. "Go on through. He'll be pleased to see you."

Douglas doubted that Martin would be pleased for anything, but he did as he was told. Slipping from the kitchen, he took the familiar route to Martin's bedroom – it had been so long and yet it was like muscle memory. The door was open, and when he pushed it open an inch, he saw an achingly familiar figure – short but fairly slim, with a rash of ginger hair and freckles on his cheeks and the backs of his hands – perched on the edge of the bed, head in his hands.

Martin looked up when Douglas entered and cleared his throat. To Douglas' relief, Martin's eyes met his without wavering and he managed a wobbly smile.

"Douglas..."

"Hello, Martin."

Douglas was there to catch him when Martin rose to his feet and threw his arms around him. It wasn't the intimate embrace that they had shared in the past, but the strong-armed, lingering hug of the best of friends kept apart for so long. Douglas gripped the back of Martin's neck in an affectionate gesture when they pulled apart, hands still clutching at arms, and wished that he knew what to say. He was there for Martin – because Martin needed him and words over the phone weren't enough.

When Martin returned to the bed, Douglas sat beside him. Their arms brushed – were pressed together really – and Douglas felt a sliver of guilt at being pleased at the sensation. He was sure though that Martin felt the same. He kept glancing at him from the corner of his eye, lips twitching in spite of himself.

"Are you alright?"

"A-as alright as I can be, I-I guess," Martin sighed. His hand covered Douglas' where it rested on his knee, and Douglas turned their palms over so that his was cradling Martin's. Martin fidgeted and leaned more heavily against him. "I-it was... I-I actually don't think he... I-I don't know what it was like. I-I don't know whether he was in pain or... B-but I can't imagine a heart attack was much fun."

"Martin, I'm so sorry-"

"Y- _you've_ got nothing to be sorry for-"

"Your dad-"

"H-he was great..." Martin said, his voice so high and fractured that it shattered like glass. He trembled, tremors shuddering through Douglas too, as he swallowed hard. "A-and now he's gone..."

As tears formed in Martin's eyes, he dropped his head into his hands again.

Douglas did the only thing he could think of and wrapped his arms around Martin. Chin resting against his shoulder, he held Martin close, hating how natural it felt. He could offer comfort but it was wrong to enjoy it, even a tiny little bit – he _didn't_ enjoy it really, but it had been so long since they had been close. If he could have changed things, he would have. All he could do was hold Martin until he stilled and curled into his side, clinging to him just as tightly as he wiped his tears away with the back of his hand.

After a while, the pulled apart, but didn't move away from one another.

Douglas wished that he wasn't lost for words. He was normally so good with them.

"So, um... y-you're... you're going for your PPL – y-you can do that now?" Martin asked, voice stronger than it had been before. His eyes travelled the lines of Douglas' face as he turned his hand over in his. "Th-that's what you said over the phone, isn't it?"

"Hmm, yes..." Douglas replied, feeling like he shouldn't. "I've done all the exams. I just need the CAA to come and watch me fly and I'll be allowed to fly without an instructor."

"Th-then you'll have a whole lot more training and exams lined up before they give you your CPL," Martin said, with a faint smile. "I-I'm pleased for you – I _am_. I-I can't believe how quickly you're getting through it."

"My instructor says I'm a natural."

"O-of course you are."

They sat in silence for a while. Despite everything, Douglas felt that things were alright between them. After a sharp sniffle, Martin sat up a little straighter and rubbed his hands together.

"I-I'm sorry you had to come all the way back just for..."

"Nonsense, Martin," Douglas said, taking his hand. "Actually... I was planning on coming down anyway – as a surprise. I had something I wanted to tell you."

"What?"

"Now's not the time," Douglas sighed.

"I-if anytime was the time to give me good news, now's it," Martin said fiercely, and although he was clearly miserable there was a steel in his expression and firmness in the way he gripped Douglas' hand. "Wh-what was so important you wanted to come and see me?"

For a moment, Douglas considered lying. But there was no point, and no need.

"Well, I... I've built up quite a rapport with one of my instructors," Douglas admitted, with a sheepish glance down at the bedclothes. This wasn't the time, but he had been waiting so eagerly for a chance to see Martin's face when he told him. "He's a fan of a particular product that he can only get through me, which I've been having Arthur send up to me after flights to the source-"

"Oh, I see," Martin sighed fondly.

"You see? Good, well... we've been having words, he and I," Douglas continued. "And... I mentioned that there was someone very close to my heart who's always wanted to be a pilot. After some heavy negotiations, he said that, because I'm a friend of sorts, he might be willing to halve his fees for someone _truly dedicated_ to learning how to fly."

Martin stared at him as if he himself had grown wings. Douglas hurried to explain.

"It wouldn't be a huge loss for him, obviously. Money's money, and he gets bored spending all his time with us students," he said. "You would still have to pay the landing fees and the aircraft hire, but he's willing to work for less – and he might even let you use the aircraft that we rent, and there are a lot of corners that he could cut-"

"Douglas..."

"Point is, Martin, it would cut down the years it would take for you to save up the full fee," Douglas continued, with a renewed haste. "Get a loan, get a flat-share, and you'd save even more – make it happen even sooner."

" _Douglas,_ " Martin interrupted. Hand on his knee, he stared at him, shaking his head. "Douglas, I-I didn't ask you to do that."

"I know you didn't. You didn't have to."

Martin nodded slowly. He wasn't agreeing with him. He took a deep breath and Douglas held his. This wasn't the right day, or the right week, but he held his breath and waited to hear what Martin would say as he bit his lip.

"A-a flat share?" Martin asked, raising an eyebrow. Then he scoffed under his breath and rolled his eyes. "H-have you found me a flat-mate as well?"

"I was rather hoping I wouldn't have to," Douglas replied softly.

They didn't discuss the matter any further, although Douglas could tell that Martin was tempted. He was also too deep in mourning to make any decisions. Soon enough, they left his room and met the others in the kitchen.

Douglas accepted Wendy Crieff's tearful hug, patting her back and offering to help in any way he could. She patted his cheek and sniffled into a handkerchief, stroking down the creases in her smart black dress.

"Our Raymond was ever so fond of you, Douglas, dear," she said. "I'm glad you could make it."

They all remained close until the departure. The only other people to arrive at the house were a few of Caitlin's friends, Theresa, and Arthur. Carolyn and Herc would meet them at the church with everyone else. Then they set off in a procession, Douglas holding Martin's hand while Martin _squeezed_ so hard he feared his fingers might break.

It was a grim day, but Wendy and her children were desperate to go about things with dignity. Douglas couldn't deny them that.

Martin had hoped that the funeral would pass by in a blur, but it didn't. He was painfully aware of every moment, and grateful for Douglas' steady presence beside him to act as an anchor – not quite a distraction, but enough to keep him grounded even when his eyes burned as his breath came so quickly his lungs couldn't contain it.

There had been a lot of discussion as to who was going to give the eulogy, but his mum was in too much pain, his sister was in tears and nowhere near as strong as she liked to be, and Simon reached the church paler and more eager to flee than he had been at the house. Martin found himself at the front of the congregation with a speech he had written just in case, and he spoke – trembling, but he got all the way through.

He caught Douglas' eye more than once, and each time it kept him talking.

He didn't give Douglas' offer much thought. Oh, he knew that he wanted it. To fly for less money than he had ever hoped and to live with Douglas after so long – with everything that had happened he wanted it more than ever.

But he didn't think about it. He couldn't think about anything but his dad.

While his father was turned to ashes, Martin thought about all the time they had spent together. His dad had wanted him to stay – he might have been supportive, and cheered Martin on when he went to his interviews and studied his manuals, but his eyes had never shone so bright as when Martin sat in the van with him, or fixed someone's fuses under his careful watch.

His dad had wanted him at home, and now that he was gone Martin knew that it was more important than ever that someone was at home to fill the spaces left behind. And he needed money – a smaller bill didn't mean anything if it bled him dry.

It all seemed so insignificant now.

The wake took place at home, and although everyone was sad, their company made his mother smile and dry her eyes on the sleeve of her dress. There was talk, and there were hugs from everyone that knew them, and eventually Martin had enough.

Taking hold of Douglas' sleeve, Martin tugged him from the house and into the shadowed alcove beside the garden shed where his dad had kept his tools. Once there, he pulled Douglas close and wrapped himself around him – Douglas' arms were strong and Martin took some comfort from being held. He didn't quite cry, but he squeezed his eyes shut and ached through the urge until his energy faded and he was left exhausted.

Mostly, Martin wanted it all over with.

When Theresa and Arthur seemed to realise that he had had enough of talking – when he had returned to the house and readied himself to endure more sympathy – Martin leaned close and muttered in Douglas' ear.

"I need some air."

"Shall we pop out for a minute?" Douglas murmured in returned, eyes darting towards the other guests as he made himself more inconspicuous than Martin had ever seen him in the whole of their time together.

"N-no, can we just – can we walk around for a bit?"

The streets of Fitton were chilled and no comfort at all, but Martin was more grateful for the silence and Douglas' hand in his than he had been for anything else in years. They didn't just walk – they traversed the entire length of town, wearing down the hours until the ringing inside his skull died down and he could breathe without straining the bars around his chest.

They didn't really talk.

There were words, but no conversation.

Douglas told him about what had been happening at flight-school, as if they were chatting on the phone. Martin was glad to hear it. Jealousy never went away, but he was proud of how well Douglas was coping on his own. In turn, Martin told him in dribs and drabs about the plans he had been making for the van – a money making scheme that he wasn't about to abandon because Douglas had given him a clever connection. If he accepted, he would keep working, because he had learned that there were obstacles and toils no matter how big his dreams grew to be.

They ended up at the airfield. They always seemed to end up at the airfield.

It was almost nice to watch the planes take off and taxi around the tarmac, round and round as ATC issued them instructions from afar.

"Th-that'll be you one day," Martin remarked, pointing to the jet that was doing circuits in the air above their heads.

"And you," Douglas replied. Martin was grateful, even if he was exasperated as well. "I can't think of anyone better for it."

Martin nodded and gazed up at the sky, elbow brushing Douglas' as he wrapped his arms around himself and set a steady course around the perimeter. Douglas followed and they maintained a comfortable quiet. He supposed he should be talking about his dad, but he didn't want to. His dad was safe and sound inside his head, and he didn't want to know what would happen if he tried to talk himself through his feelings on the matter.

He could see Douglas looking at him, wanting to speak, but holding it back.

"S-so how are _your_ parents?" Martin asked, when they were halfway around the airfield, seeing the planes from a whole other angle.

Douglas shrugged with lacklustre and grimaced apologetically, as if discussing them was somehow forbidden on such a day.

"Well, to be perfectly honest... we don't really speak much anymore," he said, and Martin realised at once why Douglas was feeling uncomfortable. If he could speak to his dad again... but this was Douglas, and his parents, who didn't hate him but weren't all that happy with his life choices either. Douglas continued when he wasn't interrupted. "I mean, they call every now and then... birthdays and the like, but... they're not interested in me being a pilot. I hear from my brother more often, and that's only when he's bored."

Martin watched him for a moment – watched Douglas shrug his coat more securely around his shoulders and kick at the ground, frowning at the toes of his boots and flicking his head as the wind blew his hair into his face.

Slowly but surely, some of the fog lifted from his mind. Martin managed a flicker of a smile when Douglas' glanced his way, and then frowned in confusion.

"What?"

"Nothing," Martin replied.

"No, come on. What is it?"

Martin shrugged and started walking again, swaying closer so that their arms brushed.

"I-I was just thinking... it's a shame my dad isn't here to see this," he said, gesturing out to encompass it all – the airfield, him and Douglas, the unimaginable future that Douglas was suggesting he take by the horns.

Douglas nodded, not asking what he meant.

"Yes, I suppose it is."

"I-it would be an even bigger shame if it didn't happen," Martin said, buoyed by a renewed certainty. He didn't know which he was referring – probably all of them – they all melted into one kind of happiness really, distant but still warm where it settled in his chest.

This time, Douglas raised a smile.

" _Quite_ a shame, yes," he agreed.

Still, they made no plans. However, Martin met turned his back on the airfield feeling something he hadn't thought possible when dawn had broken, throwing light over where he lay wide awake – that everything might just turn out alright.

Douglas walked Martin home in silence, leaving him to his thoughts. He didn't take his eyes from him though. There were a lot of things he wanted to say, but none of them would mean much on a day like this. Martin's wan smile was reward enough for turning up, and he knew that some part of Martin's mind was devoted to thinking over his offer.

If Martin could come with him, it would be a start. A year ago, they could never have done it, but Martin had spent that year working himself to the bone – filling every hour with van jobs and flights until he was raw with the effort – and he had been saving as much as he could. They had been apart but Douglas had been kept informed – he knew how hard they had both worked and for once everything seemed to be going to plan.

There was only one thing missing.

They arrived back at the house to find the guests gone, and the family making use of quiet spaces to calm down and let the worst parts of the day sink to the back of their minds. The kitchen was empty, occupied only by half-filled platters that had been left on counters to be dealt with another time. It was here that Martin came to a stop, pulling up a seat at the kitchen table and pulling a platter of finger sandwiches into reach.

"I'm starving," Martin muttered.

Douglas joined him, and was surprised when Martin laid a hand on his wrist.

"I-I really do hope you do brilliantly," he said. "In fact, I _know_ you will."

"Martin-"

"N-no, really... you're going to make a great pilot. Once you've got your PPL, the rest of it's going to seem like a breeze," Martin insisted, forcing a smile that met his eyes, but only just. Then he dusted the crumbs off his fingers and shook his head. "I-I mean, it _won't_ be a breeze. There's a lot more hard work in store, b-but you're good at this kind of thing – practical tasks and dangerous... stuff."

"Thank you, Martin."

"No, Douglas, I-I really mean it," Martin said, and he took Douglas' hand and held his gaze with all his might. Douglas didn't dare pull away. "I-I know I was... before I wasn't great about this, b-but you're going to make an _amazing_ pilot and I hope you love it."

Douglas felt himself choke up, and hastily swallowed the urge. Nodding quickly, he placed his other hand over Martin's, sandwiching it between his own and leaning as close as he could with the table between them.

"Martin... Oh, _Martin_ , I wish we could fly together," he said. "I really, _really_ do."

"M-maybe one day," Martin replied with a half-laugh, eyes resting on their joined hands. "Y-you never know. Give me a few years and..."

He didn't finish. He didn't need to.

They spent the rest of the afternoon in Martin's parents' room, picking through the box of things that Wendy had set aside for Martin – his dad would have wanted him to have them, she said. Douglas didn't know what to say to him most of the time, but Martin seemed to want to smile and make the most of the items, and he regaled him with stories to go with each and every one. They never got too close, or strayed too far from one another, and when the sky turned dark they had shirked their jackets and pushed up their shirtsleeves.

"I-I can't believe he left me this," Martin said with an exasperated sigh. The keys to his dad's van hung from his little finger, swinging and jangling under the weight of the novelty key rings. "What does he think I'm going to do with it?"

"Use it to keep a roof over your head," Douglas suggested.

"I-it's terrible, Douglas," Martin chuckled wetly, dropping his head into his hand as if it were hysterical. "I-it breaks down all the time, a-and I'll have to pay for MOTs a-and petrol."

"Well, it's something at least," Douglas replied, with a smirk, hand rubbing circles up and down Martin's upper arm in a soothing motion. "At least now you've got a nice set of wheels to get you from place to place."

"I suppose."

When Martin dug out a thick gold signet ring, the tears threatened to fall again. Douglas grasped his shoulder and waited for him to collect himself, before holding his tongue as Martin slipped the ring onto his finger. It suited him in a peculiar kind of way. There wasn't much else after that, except for a few smart shirts, a leather jacket, and some other trinkets that seemed much the same as the ones Caitlin and Simon had been carrying around.

"Y-you know, Simon and Caitlin got five grand each," Martin said, when the silence seemed to have settled into something peaceful. Douglas raised an eyebrow but Martin ploughed onwards. "I-I don't care about the money, obviously, but... but that's just it, isn't it? Dad knew I needed something like that to get my training, a-and he didn't give it to me. I-I suppose the van is more... i-it's more personal, but... h-he didn't really care about the flying."

"You said it's a shame he won't see you get your license," Douglas said, gently as he dared.

"I-it is," Martin replied steadfastly. "A-and I'm going to do it. It's just something to think about."

They didn't think about it aloud. Evening fell and Wendy called them all through for a final round of drinks, even Caitlin who Douglas had forgotten turned eighteen a few months before. He had wanted to excuse himself, but Martin refused, saying it was silly to leave them alone when they were already alone enough as it was.

Nothing happened that night.

Somehow, Martin convinced Douglas to stay overnight. Douglas wasn't entirely sure how, but come morning he was certain that it didn't take much persuasion at all. He didn't have an overnight bag, but he didn't need one. They talked for so long that he fell asleep in his shirtsleeves and shoes, gazing at Martin and thinking that if Martin didn't stop reaching over to fiddle with his collar and the buttons of his shirt, he might do something wildly inappropriate given the circumstances.

When Douglas awoke, it was to find Martin watching him.

"How much is the rent?" Martin asked, before Douglas had time to blink.

"Hmm?"

"Th-the rent," Martin repeated. "I-if I were to come and train with your instructor."


	27. Chapter 27

Nine Years Later

Feet up on the control panel, Douglas straightened the stripes on his sleeve and tipped his hat into a jaunty angle. Fitton airfield was clear and bright outside the wide window, on which the dials and illuminated switches were reflected. They weren't due to fly for another twenty minutes, and his co-pilot hadn't yet arrived. GERTI was thrumming with anticipation though – at least according to Arthur. He refused to believe it was just the engines.

"She's never run this smoothly," Arthur insisted as he lounged against the jump-seat, dressed as smartly as he could in his red steward's uniform. After years of growing at odd angles, he was finally as tall as he would get, an inch taller than Douglas.

"Well, don't count your geese yet, Arthur," Douglas drawled. "I did the walk around and it looks like we're right on time for another bit to fall off."

Arthur nodded sagely and Douglas sank deeper into his seat, careful not to kick the more vital instruments. Folding his arms behind his head, he was perfectly relaxed. There was a clunking and the scrape of the cabin door from outside, and Arthur hurried off, leaving Douglas to his thoughts.

It had been five years since he had approached Carolyn asking for a job. He had applied to other airlines, like Air England, of course, but hadn't accepted any of their offers. It was enough to know that he _could_ get in – especially as MJN's thirty-fifth First Officer had quit, leaving a position nice and open in the flight-deck. It wasn't the best airline by any means, but it was _home_ – GERTI ran as well as she ever had, Arthur was as cheerful and had become rather good at making coffee and tea, and Herc wasn't as bossy as Douglas had expected... when he wasn't showing off.

The pay wasn't brilliant, but it kept him in a nice house in Fitton, which was good enough.

Douglas was shaken from his musings by the sharp click of Carolyn's heels on the steel floor. He made no effort to sit up properly, but tipped his hat back so that he had a clear view of her face from below as she loomed over him, hands on her hips.

"Douglas, I thought you were meeting us at the porta-cabin," she said, unimpressed but not annoyed quite yet.

"And give you the chance to pile more paperwork on my desk?" Douglas replied dryly, flashing her a smile. He winked and then grinned as she tutted, swatting him with the back of her hand. "Not a chance."

"I was gone for _two weeks_ and you haven't done a thing."

"Oh yes, and a nice two weeks were they? Herc settling in well at Cal Air? Enjoying that Scottish sunshine is he?"

"Why yes, Douglas, he _is_ ," Carolyn drawled. "I'll pass on your love, shall I?"

While Douglas grumbled, Arthur ambled back into the flight-deck.

"Is he not finished faffing about yet?" Carolyn asked.

"Not yet, no."

At that, Douglas hoisted himself upright, setting his hat to rights. His jacket was out of place, so he smoothed it down and performed a cursory check of the instruments. The pre-flight paperwork _had_ been completed, and rested patiently on the empty seat beside him.

"Cargo all packed then?" he asked, glancing over his shoulder. His view of the galley was limited, even more so now that Arthur and Carolyn were standing in the way. This was his first flight without Herc – first flight that he wasn't taking solo at least – and it was a long run of nearly twelve hours. Anticipation coiled in his stomach. "Hold secured?"

"Everything's in place," Carolyn replied. "And you've planned out your alternatives?"

"Of course."

" _Of course_ you won't be using them," she continued. "I'd like to arrive in one piece."

"I've made the galley ready as well," Arthur chipped in, eager not to be left out. He wore excitement far more readily than they did, and was rocking on his heels, glancing out into the galley. "As soon as you want coffee, just ring the service bell-"

"Don't ring it too often," Carolyn instructed.

"And I'll come and take your orders," Arthur concluded.

"Yes, thank you, Arthur. I have actually done this before," Douglas remarked as he caught Arthur's eye. "Any idea what the weather's going to be like over there? I didn't bother checking – thought I'd leave something for the rest of you to do."

"Sunny skies, but with a possibility of light showers."

A new voice joined the fray, and Douglas let his feet hit the floor as he sat up properly, turning to see over the back of his chair. His lips pulled into a grin and a rush of warmth flooded his chest at the sight of Martin standing tall-ish and proud in the entrance to the flight-deck – uniform as sleek as possible given that Carolyn had been the one to buy it, hat balanced perfectly atop a head of ginger hair that had been slicked back for the occasion. When he caught Douglas' eye, past Arthur and Carolyn, his cheeks flushed red and he smiled just as brightly.

" _There_ you are, Martin! I was beginning to think you'd forgotten us," Douglas drawled, fighting the urge to stand and greet him properly – as if he hadn't seen him already, hours ago. As Martin slipped through the flight-deck towards his seat, Douglas' smile didn't fade. "Best not set a precedence."

"It's not as if you _need_ a precedence setting," Carolyn muttered. "You haven't turned up on time for work in five years."

"Silly me," Douglas replied distractedly. His attention was devoted entirely to Martin, who took a seat beside him, taking hold of the paperwork, and glanced out the window, down at the control panel, over his head to the switches above them – everywhere he could think of. It made him glow from the inside. Clearing his throat, Douglas nodded towards the others. "I think if that's everything, the cabin crew should take their positions, shouldn't they, Captain?"

"Hmmm – o-oh, yes," Martin agreed with a vehement nod. He turned to the others and put on his best authoritative face, which he had been practicing on Carolyn with little success for the greater part of a month. "I-if the cabin crew could vacate the flight-deck and ensure that the passengers are... secure..."

Carolyn rolled her eyes, but Douglas saw her lips twitch.

"Oh, alright, just this _once_ you can boss me around," she said. "Just don't forget _who's the boss._ "

Arthur followed her from the flight-deck, firing off a sunny grin and giving Martin a little wave before pulling the door shut behind them.

Then they were alone.

Martin turned to say something to him, but Douglas beat him to it. Leaning across the seats as they had done so many times as teenagers, he pulled Martin into a firm kiss, pressing their lips together and trailing his fingers through one side of his hair, disrupting the tidy angle of his hat. Martin kissed back, eyes closed, lashes fluttering past Douglas' cheek – it was sweet and firm and Martin moved just so to make it slick – then he placed a hand on Douglas' shoulder and held him away at arm's length.

"D- _Douglas_ , that is completely unprofessional!"

"What? I'm not allowed to show my dashing husband how glad I am to have him on board, Captain?" Douglas drawled, running his hand down the length of Martin's arm, to wind his fingers through Martin's – where a second band rested alongside his father's signet ring. "Anyone would think you weren't terribly proud of yourself."

"I-I am proud of myself," Martin replied sternly, incapable of keeping the smile from his face. His cheeks remained red beneath the freckles in his efforts to remain professional. "B-but I don't think the CAA would be pleased if they knew-"

"We've got up to far worse in here," Douglas murmured, and he leaned in close, pressing his lips to the warm skin just below Martin's ear. He was pleased to feel Martin squirm and run his own hand down Douglas' arm. "I don't really care what the CAA thinks."

"W-well I _do_ ," Martin said. This time, he leaned right out of reach, smirking when Douglas reached out to stop him, unsuccessfully, and was forced to sag back into his own seat. "A-and I hope you realise that as long as I'm in command, y-you're going to do as you're told."

"Am I now?"

"Yes."

"Well then."

"Yes, well then... e-exactly," Martin agreed, nodding. He looked down at the paperwork in his hand as if he had forgotten it was there. Then he cleared his throat, sat up straight, and tipped his hat back into place. "Pre – p-pre take-off checks?"

"I did the walk around and filled out the paperwork," Douglas replied. "I _suppose_ we can do the checks if you like."

"Y-yes, I would like that," Martin informed him. Shoulders squared, he couldn't hide his excitement as he settled into his seat and put the paperwork aside. He caught Douglas' eye and reached for his hand – holding it only a second before pulling away. "Right then, First Officer Richardson..."

As Martin set about issuing orders, Douglas chipped in where necessary and leaned on his hand, letting affection bubble through him. With GERTI's engines rumbling through the walls around them, and Martin babbling on, he was buoyant with the weightless sensation that came with pride. Never in a million years had he thought he would get to see this – and yet, as Martin _kept_ talking, on and on and on, he couldn't help feel that it was perfectly, wonderfully _right_.


End file.
